


Sacrificee (Diasparklez)

by InsaneWeasel



Category: Mianite - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Realm of Mianite - Fandom
Genre: Cult, Dianite's flirty, Diasparklez, M/M, Sacrifice, Sub/Dom undertones, TW: Mild Burning Alive, ignore that tag--just...Idk. Dia seems to have a thing, sexual innuendo, ya know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-05-03 10:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14566701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneWeasel/pseuds/InsaneWeasel
Summary: Never agree to something without knowing any of the details behind it. Or--Jordan readily agrees to something and everything escalates far too fast. Yet, somehow it's never as bad after the initial burn. He has 1 week. Alone. With Dianite. And the doom of Ragnarok brought on upon them by the Modesteps. But ya know...he's alone with Dianite and that's kind of the same.Season 3-esque setting. (So the living characters of Mianite Season 2 in Season 1's world).Rating my change to Mature.





	1. Burning For You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [krhoades11](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=krhoades11).



“Have you got the altar ready?” Mot called down the ladder. There wasn't a response. Annoyed he tossed the large, burlap sack down the hole and then jumped down after it, his cat-like grace lending to a soft landing. The same could not be sad for the bag. The body-sized bag let out a sharp muffled cry of agony as they hit the stone floor with a loud thud. Mot just stepped over the bag, paying its contents no mind. His attention turned to the room’s other occupant.

Tom had surprisingly been doing his job. “Tom?”

“Almost,” Tom muttered, taking a sip from the wine bottle that was supposed to be for the sacrifice. The red wine left a red taint on his lips that he absently wiped away with his left hand. His right hand finished carving the last symbol with a quick flourish of the knife. Mot stood behind him and looked at his work. The carvings were a little shoddy, but they would work all the same.

Deftly, he plucked the wine bottle from Tom. “You aren't supposed to drink it.”

“I was thirsty. It's hot as hell down here,” Tom snapped. He wiped sweaty hands on his pants and stood up. It was unlikely his hands were _only_ sweaty from the heat, Mot knew it was from nerves as well. The room was small and hidden far from anyone's but their, and Alyssa's, ability to find. It was lit with numerous torches, but not much light seemed to permeate the dark space. The stone ceiling was low enough Mot's hand would graze it if he reached up. The furnishings were sparse. And not the kind of furnishings one would adorn a room meant for pleasantries with.

In the middle stood a stone altar with built in straps to presumably hold someone. A stone table sat on its right side with a velvet cloth draped over it.

Mot snorted and despite getting onto Tom, he too took a drink from the bottle before setting it on the stone table, otherwise known as an offering table. A _divine_ offering table.

He lined it up with the other items there. All were important to the sacrifice in the sense they held great value in price, craft, and importance to the users themselves. A well-crafted battle hammer from Mot, a respectable sword from Tom and even a cross bow from Alyssa who didn't show up to the sacrifice. Busy, as all teens usually are. A few items of  other value from spell books to clothes were piled neatly.

“It looks decent,” Mot said. He silently added, _but I could have done it better._

Tom turned to him with some reluctance. There were bags under his eyes and a tinge of regret pouring off him. Or the rank smell of sweat. Either way, Mot felt inclined to feel a shred of sympathy, or rather, pity.

 

Desperately, Tom wiped away some sweat form his forehead and murmured: “How about you?” He rubbed his arm as if he was afraid to know the answer. “Did you get him?”

 

“Yes,” Mot said without much elaboration.

 

It didn't look like the answer Tom wanted to hear, but he accepted it all the same. Reluctantly, he grabbed the knife he had just finished carving the symbols with. He knew what step was next and he drew the knife across his palm, sucking in a breath. “...How did it go?” Tom asked as he wrote his name with his own blood.

 

When he was finished, Mot took the knife from him and did the same. “It was fairly easy,” he said, with a tilt of his head. He eyed the blood names and reluctantly pulled out a flask that had a small amount of another person’s blood. Alyssa might as well get her credit. Tom was looking at him, his eyes begging him to go on. To explain. Mot sighed. “I just asked him if I could come inside to talk to him.”

 

“He let you in at that?” Tom asked surprised.

 

Sarcastically, Mot gestured to the bag. “No, I lit his house aflame and dragged him out”—Tom gave him an outraged look—“of course he did Tom! He's gullible.” Shaking his head, he couldn’t fathom why Tom would even have to ask.

Tom rolled his eyes. He was a bit relieved. “Forgive me, my dearest surrogate brother in arms, that I dare think that one of _my_ good friends possesses a shred of common sense. That he would be careful when letting Dianite followers into his house.” Tom turned to the sack with a much more serious intent, the humorous light going out in his eyes. “I only wish he did,” he added under his breath.

 

He pulled his own dagger from his belt and knelt on the ground next to the rough sack. Regarding it with an air of regret, he grabbed a hold of the top of the sack.

 

“You're forgiven,” Mot said simply. With steady hands he gripped the sack and the occupant inside to hold it still while Tom started sawing the rope holding it closed. The person inside the bag struggled more; their movements were jerky and desperate. Tom paid no mind, his attention on not cutting his hand open as he pulled the rope free. The bag was mostly open.

  
“He's gagged and bound, right?” Tom asked. Mot nodded.

 

Tom grit his teeth and reached an arm in. “Good, because during the practice run yesterday, the one with the villager, he nearly tore one of my fingers off, because _someone_ didn't gag him,” Tom complained. He reached around in the bag for its occupant, meaning to haul him out.

 

Unluckily, at that moment the man had decided come hell or high water, there was no good ending to his situation, and attempted to escape. He threw himself out of the bag in hopes his captors would be surprised. The ropes around his legs had gotten loose and he used that to his advantage, kicking his way out. Tom and Mot weren't nearly as surprised as they should have been.

 

Tom held the man down by his shoulders while Mot held down his legs. The two met each other in a stare. Tom's eyes were shining—he was unprepared for this. This was too sudden. No, not the man escaping, but the whole situation. It was harder when it was someone he knew. Mot’s eyes were emotionless, certain—this wasn't a big deal. This wasn't going to end in something bad for any of them. This was just business.

 

The man being held to the ground did not understand what was going on. His eyes were wide, panicked. They darted around frantically until they landed on Tom. The panic subsided for a moment, the man's expression twisting in confusion, before anger. The message was clear: _What the hell is wrong with you? Get me out of this!_

 _  
_ Tom reluctantly had caught the man's eyes and now tore his gaze away from the accusatory look to plead with Mot. “Why didn't you blindfold him too?” Tom demanded, avoiding letting the muffled curses sent his direction from the man bother him. Mot shrugged.

 

“No need,” Mot said. “That would imply that we needed to hide our identities,” Tom gave him a pointed glare, “which would be revealed should this work anyhow. Also, you act like he doesn't know us just by our voices.” Tom's face reddened at that at the realization. He was mortified.

 

“It would have made _me_ feel better,” Tom said in afterthought.

 

“Come on, we can talk about this _after_ ,” Mot growled. “I'd rather not have this conversation while we're pinning a man to the floor.”

 

Tom grumbled, but helped Mot lift the man, keeping his muscles taut despite the kicking and struggling from Mot's end. As soon as he was on the altar, Tom only did one strap around the man's chest before rushing down to help Mot get the straps around the man's legs. It was a difficult battle, but they won all the same. Relieved, Mot nodded his thanks and they moved upwards.

 

They had to briefly undo the chest strap to cut the ropes underneath and get the man's arms into the straps, but they managed it.  The man had started screaming through the gag. For help? To insult? Had he gone mad so quickly? But did it matter? Neither Tom nor Mot paid attention. Tom did try not to notice as he did the last strap around the man's neck that the man was crying, tears running down his cheeks as he panicked. As his his hand brushed over the pulse of the man's neck he could feel it hammering beneath his fingers.

 

“I'm taking the gag off,” Tom announced and he cut the piece of rope.

  
“Suit yourself,” Mot said, stepping back from the altar.

 

Once the gag was pulled away the man sucked in a quick breath, opened his mouth to say something and then faltered. His eyes darted from Tom to Mot rapidly.

 

“Hey, relax,” Tom muttered and drifted a hand over his friend's forehead. “Mot told me this is only temporary. Just the same as dying and respawning.”

 

“Sacrifice is temporary, Tom?!” The man was beside himself with fear and anger. He strained against the straps, the leather cutting into his bare wrists. Helplessly, Tom looked to Mot for advice. The man continued. “Mot kidnapped me, brutally pinned me to the ground and tied my wrists and legs before gagging me and shoving this rough sack over me and then...and then he drags me here! You're both insane! When I said 'sacrifice me' in response to what I thought was one of your stupid jokes, I wasn't serious!” the man managed to rush out in one breath, a sheen of sweat starting to show across his forehead.

 

“That's all it takes for you to be considered a willing sacrifice,” Mot cut in. “Verbal agreement. We were almost going to have to use one of ourselves, but you stepped in. What would we do without you?” There was a faint tint of amusement in Mot's expression and his lips twitched into an ugly smile. He leaned against the altar. “Our lord will be most gracious.”

 

The man grit his teeth together, his eyes locked on Mot. He spat a mixture of blood and saliva into Mot's face. “Go to hell.”

 

At that, Mot cackled. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket. “Been there, done that. Not my turn anymore.” Tauntingly, he jabbed a finger into the man's chest. “You'll have to tell me what's changed when you get there.” The man threw himself against the straps, shouting curses at Mot. Mot only laughed.

 

“Stop,” Tom reprimanded Mot, before turning to the man.

 

He was trying to be nice about this. _This_ wasn't his idea. He would have rather sacrificed Tucker, (who also had accidentally accepted whether he knew it or not), but Mot said different. He said Dianite wouldn't appreciate Tucker being in his realm. With guilt weighing heavy, Tom gripped the man's hand. “It's only a week; it's just part of the festival.” The man rolled his eyes to the stone ceiling, refusing to look at Tom. That stung Tom.  Quieter, Tom murmured, _“Their_ Dianite takes off for a week to avoid godly duties and he makes all the Dianite followers in that week invincible so he doesn't have to revive us. We repay him by giving him distractions, ways for him to unload stress.” The man snorted and if anything looked less likely to accept anything Tom was saying. _“Trust me_ , at the end of the week you'll be revived and you can go back to spring cleaning,” Tom's train of thought derailed. “Hey! While you’re gone, I could clean out your vault.”

 

It was supposed to be (partially) a joke, one hopefully meant to make the poor man on the altar laugh It failed.

 

“When—if—I get back,” the man started slowly, “you...you will be...” The man was lost for words with how enraged he was. “You haven't seen the wrath of me yet.”

 

Tom couldn't help, but snicker. Never had he seen the man this salted. Perhaps to counter the guilt still in his stomach, he resorted to petty insults.

 

“Does it involve glitter?”

 

Mot held in a snicker behind a hand. The man on the altar sucked in a breath to hold back the words he might regret saying. Even after something tremendously dangerous and painful and scarring as this—Tom was still a friend. One swimming in _very_ hot water that is.

 

“Just close your eyes, Sparklez. We'll see you in a week,” Tom ushered, running a hand through Jordan's hair. Mot took that as the time to pull out a bottle of hard liquor from his bag and the torch off the wall. 

 

Jordan had relaxed for a brief second before he looked past Tom's face to Mot. His eyes widened into saucers as he realized their intention.

  
“You expect me to 'relax' through being burned alive?!” Jordan screeched, pulling against the straps again. Tom just patted his head sympathetically and took the torch from Mot.

 

“I've done it,” Mot said. “It helps if you're in pain. Bite your tongue off or something.” His kind advice was met with dirty looks from both Tom and Jordan, but he ignored them. Carelessly he started pouring the alcohol onto Jordan.

 

Some part of Jordan had given up. “Don't get that in my eyes,” Jordan muttered sullenly, laying his head back on the altar. He let his legs and wrists in the straps go lax.

 

Mot didn't listen and poured the last bit over Jordan's face anyhow with a tutting noise. Jordan had squeezed his eyes closed before and managed to spare his poor eyes from whatever the atrocious smelling drink was.

 

“Why? You didn't have to do that.” Jordan snapped.

 

“Unless you want it to take twice as long to burn your face...” Mot suggested, sliding the bottle back into his satchel.

 

“What about when I revive? My body will be ashes, a crisp at most,” Jordan said, his voice starting to fill with panic again.

 

“Any damage done in the sacrifice doesn't stay when you revive,” Mot supplied. His eyes were on Tom, asking the man quietly if he was ready. Jordan followed his gaze, his eyes locking on the spitting flame upon the torch. It twisted and danced curiously. “It's time.”

 

“Can I take back my willingness? Please don't do this, Tom. Tom, please,” Jordan started begging.

 

“Just close your eyes,” Tom murmured before lowering the torch to Jordan's chest. His own eyes had closed in mid motion.

  
The man on the altar screamed before the fire even started to burn him. When it did, his screams wailed nonstop. Tom flinched and thrust the torch back at Mot, covering his ears.

 

“Wait, we have to make sure Dianite gets it,” Mot said, hanging the torch back up.

 

Tom's eyes snapped open. “What do you mean? Are you saying he could be burning alive for hours?!”

 

“Well,” Mot said casually, fiddling with his jacket collar. “Dianite could be busy. In that case, Jordan will be stuck burning neither alive or dead for a few hours.”

  
Tom stared at him in horror.

 

Just then, the fire changed color, a dark blood red dominating all of the colors. The offering table went aflame.

 

“No worries though, he has him,” Mot reassured, heading for the ladder. Tom threw one last look at Jordan who still screamed in agony, before he followed Mot.

 

…

The fire and void had no in between, or not a noticeable one. One moment the fire was blazing around him, the next he was falling. Memories of how he got here flashed before him.

_/2 days ago/_

“Is Declan here yet?”  Tom asked, sliding up beside Jordan. He was late, but it didn't make a difference seeing as Dec wasn't here.

Jordan had been sitting on a stone fountain for a while watching Spark and Jeriah duke it out in a practice sword battle in the sweltering mid-day heat. A bit to his left sat Alyssa, her feet resting in the fountain water. The 17-year-old entertained herself by chasing goldfish with her feet. Tucker and Sonja weren't present, but it was likely because they were still on their honeymoon.

“Nope,” Jordan answered.

From behind Tom slunk two familiar, but unwelcome faces. Josh nodded curtly at Jordan while Tony just flashed him a smirk. The two slipped across the courtyard to sit on some benches. They paid no mind to the fight and fell into a discussion. Jordan eyed them warily, but deemed them for the time, harmless.

Tom sighed and sat on Jordan's right side. The self-proclaimed rogue looked impatient and highly miffed.

Jordan could spend his time asking, “what’s made you mad this time, Tom” and add under his breath”--you were late, yourself,” but opted not to; instead he took in the scenery. His gaze drifted around the courtyard lazily. The court yard was created by Spark who proclaimed the land was a mess and needed more signs of civilization (it really did, all of them had just been thrown into it and threw around buildings as needed). It was a fairly-large addition, with marble pillars, polished granite slabs covering the ground neatly, two stone fountains and eight benches arranged around the outside. All of it was complemented by decorative foliage.

The image was marred by four men suddenly appearing in a colorful cloud of smoke. Without seeing and hacking out his lungs from the sour taste, Jordan knew it was the Wizards. One in particular, slid up to Tom and Jordan, greeting them with a smile.

“Hello,” he said brightly.

“Good afternoon,” Jordan greeted. Noting that the smoke didn’t stain everything. Unlike last time…

  
“Sup,” Tom said his eyes straying past James looking for something. Whatever Tom was anxious and miffed about continued.

James, in a show of magic, sat in the air across from Tom and Jordan. He lowered his hood, wincing when the sun hit the back of his hair in one furious blow.

“Declan is stalling us?” James asked, glancing in the direction of Dec's house.

“Apparently,” Jordan commented. James sighed and reclined in his imaginary air seat. His eyes darted past Tom and Jordan to another person.

“Hello, Mot,” James greeted.

Mot just nodded and sat down between Jordan and Alyssa. In after thought, he leaned back to say something to Tom. A conversation began quite literally behind Jordan's back. Jordan tuned it out and engaged James in a discussion of what Dec was possibly doing. He was only aware of Mot and Tom again when Tom let out a loud groan.

 

“What is it?” Jordan asked. Tom shook his head.

 

“I need a sacrifice,” Tom said loudly. Mot just shook his head at Tom, rolling his eyes.

 

“Sacrifice?” James asked, but Tom didn't answer. Mot pulled on Tom's arm and hissed something to him behind Jordan again. Jordan couldn't hear what he said very well; a fly chose that time to buzz past his ear.

 

 _“Dianite...vacation...week...in a castle...”_ Jordan had heard faintly. On some level of his brain, some terribly stupid level—the same level that made puns in response to sometimes tragic situations, Jordan’s mouth opened before “the worst possible” outcome could have ever been considered.

 

“Sacrifice me,” he quipped with a giggle.

 

James, who had heard everything, laughed nervously. In the way, where sometimes we know someone has screwed themselves royally, but can’t decide whether we want to be bearer of bad news. Mot's eyes brightened a little too much. “I'm not sure you should offer that,” James said softly. Jordan just rolled his eyes. As far as he was aware sacrifices in this world was just stabbing some unsuspecting individual in the purge because your god told you to.

 

Tom was looking at Jordan with at first some sort of relief, then a missed look after a glance to Mot that confirmed that Jordan _had_ screwed himself. “Well, that was far easier than I thought.”

 

Jordan didn't get a chance to reply as someone spotted Champwan and Declan. The courtyard burst into loud complaints and the previous conversation had been almost completely wiped from his mind.

 

_…_

_Earlier the day of the sacrifice_

Jordan had been cleaning out his pool when he heard a knock on the door. The man swung his legs from the pool and set down the net he had been using to get out the leaves, beer cans, dead zombies and bones from the pool. He walked across his freshly polished wooden floors to the front door. He briefly checked who it was using the window before opening the door.

 

“Mot?” Jordan asked, his eyebrows screwing up quizzically. What could the Dianitee want? To pass around fliers of that festival he'd heard of?

 

“May I come in?” Mot asked. Jordan didn't know why he was here, but didn't see any reason not to let the man in. So far everyone had been abiding by the Purge laws. He stepped aside with a brief nod. “I have some bad news.”

 

Jordan felt himself start in alarm. What could be bad news regarding him and any Dianite followers? Or was it bigger? Was a god down or dying? “What's wrong? Is it something to do with Dianite?” That's the only logical happening that Jordan would think Mot would consider bad news.

 

“Yes, it is,” Mot said. “I'm afraid I'm going to need to tell you somewhere more private.” Jordan wasn't sure why, but then again a lot of people came to him first since he was the neutral player. He felt a bit of pride at that and agreed. The only private place he could think of was the basement or vault. No one would be able to hear them there.

 

His thoughts far from being attacked, Jordan turned his back to Mot and lead the man to the basement. He was only a few steps down and just about to take another one when he felt something hit him in the back. Caught off guard, Jordan tumbled down the last few steps. He could only barely understand what happened before Mot was on top of him. A knee was jabbing into his spine  and his arms were being yanked behind his back.

 

And from there...it all went too fast and Jordan found himself staring at the inside of a sack, unable to scream or really move, wondering what the hell was happening. Yet having a feeling in his gut that the wildest fears about what could or could not be happening wouldn’t be inaccurate.

 

…

 

_Current_

 

He bolted awake. Like a bad dream, the memories of prior echoed around his mind. Jordan blinked and clutched the sheets of his bed—no, a bed. Nothing was familiar. This wasn't his room or the med room. Anxiously, he looked over himself, but he was unharmed and in much different clothes than his pool cleaning attire. It was a dark red button-up shirt, a light gray vest and black, no, a much darker gray, trousers. It was reassuring his red sunglasses were still intact. Good, he was still himself. They were tucked into the pocket of the vest unscratched. The exact same as ever.

 

Jordan swung his legs over the side of the bed and stumbled towards the door of the room.

 

It was unlocked.

 

Jordan opened the door slowly, peeking his head out into the corridor. There was no one. Dim pulsating red lights cast the hall into darkness then a narrow light, then back again. His eyes took a minute to adjust and take in at least a dozen doors all closed and all barely visible in this hall. He was never one for horror movies, but boy did this feel like one.

 

 Jordan ducked his head back into his room and scanned for a weapon. Unless he felt like wielding a candlestick like some sort of _Clue_ character he was fresh out of weaponry.

 

But he was being silly, he was already dead or at least in the land of the dead--Dianite’s realm. There wasn't anything more that could get him. Shaking his head, Jordan found a conveniently placed book of matches and lit the candles. It cast more light in the room that was noticeable from the hall. This way he could find his room again on his way back.  It wasn't like this room held anything, but it was familiar and deemed safe by his brief time unconscious in it.

 

Again, he felt more like a fool than clever. He half expected _“Objective 1: 'Safe Room' Completed”_ to pop up above his head. Mock him for his cautionary tactics, why don’t you?

 

Jordan took a few hesitant steps down the hallway and wondered whether it was a smarter idea to take the candlestick with him. The “lights”, if they could even be called that with how much “lighting” they really did, didn't warn him of the small table with a vase on it in the hall.

 

The noise from the fall of the vase, a loud _crash_ and the tinkling _shatter,_ sent chills up his spine even though he knew he caused it. Even though it was an unearthly silent, it instilled a fear in him that _something_ would hear it. Jordan turned back to his room for the candlestick, assuring himself he would do better with something lighting his way... when he heard it.

 

A low growl. Yellow eyes glowed from the direction he came. They were low to the ground and were bright enough to illuminate sharp fangs bared in a threatening sense. Jordan swallowed. _You can't die again, right?_ The beast growled louder.  Jordan wasn't going to take any chances. He ran, his non-existent heart hammering in his chest. And the beast followed.

 

It moved slower than him, not yet running, but trotting behind him. It gave Jordan time to test doors, but to his horror, none of them would open. _Maybe that's why it's walking_. Jordan dashed forward, but he couldn't see any stairs, but there was an...elevator.

 

Jordan didn't question it and quickly dove for the white plate glowing on the ground. Down usually meant out so without question he willed it down. Only to find another glowing hall and countless doors closed. Except for one. It was closed, but light leaked from the crack between the door and the floor.

 

The elevator chimed behind him. Jordan wasted no time and sprinted for it. This time, the beast ran after him. It matched Jordan's speed easily and should Jordan slow down for more than a few seconds it would be on him.

 

Using the last burst of energy he had, he threw himself towards the door and turned the knob. It was unlocked. Nearly crying in joy he opened it and fell inside the room. He got up quickly and slammed the door behind him.

 

The room hit him as he entered: the strong overpowering musk of hundreds of old—and some molding—books and parchments, the slight crackle of a fire and all of this, was bundled in a rather small room.

 

Most libraries, Jordan recalled, were towering high with floors upon floors of books organized neatly. This one looked like it had tried at one point, but had long since given up. It was only one floor with lanky bookshelves with only enough space between them to shuffle slowly through. Many of the books stuck out at odd angles. It was like a collection—no, a horde of books rather than a library. Like someone had gathered books just to gather them.

 

 _You did meet the Dianite before of this realm?_ Jordan's brain kindly reminded him. Well, come to think of it; he wouldn't put it past the former God of Chaos to just gather books so no one else could read them. It wasn't like the god likely even read them himself.

 

Although, it looks like someone had tried to clean it, but it would need a lot of work to become more than the equivalent of a messy-cat-collecting-lady's home.

 

In front of the fireplace were plush brown chairs, the kind meant to relax in. Newly placed there on a rather royal and also new rug that was hiding the rotting floorboards that would not pass a health and safety expectation. His eyes went to one chair he swore was empty when he walked in, but it almost looked like-

 

The door knob rattled. Jordan tore his eyes from the scene before him to the door. Cautiously, he put an ear to the wooden door, hoping desperately not to hear growling. There was the faint sound of padded paws on the floor making a soft slapping noise before it faded; something had distracted the beast or it had grown bored.

 

Jordan took a deep breath to regain his composure.

 

“What a pleasant surprise?” came a voice with a purr, its low, sonorous tone sending a chill through Jordan.

 

He nearly lost it again.

 

“Dianite,” Jordan greeted. So, someone had been sitting in that chair. How Jordan didn't see him was a mystery.

 

The god was reclining in the brown chair, a book sitting on his lap. He looked for a bare moment so utterly human it was hard to remember this was the same god that taunted them all from his spirit form for months nearly a year and a half ago.

 

“How did you enjoy being sacrificed?” the god asked conversationally, returning to his book.

 

Scowling, Jordan pushed away from the door. “I didn't, sir,” he said curtly.

 

The god tsked and flipped the page in his book. His small noise of annoyance seemed amplified further by the fire echoing him, growing a few degrees warmer and brighter with his mood. “Under _my_ roof it's 'my lord' or 'my liege' or 'my god',” Dianite corrected. Jordan rolled his eyes. “And I can't imagine why your sacrifice wasn't enjoyable. I thought being burned alive was the craze these days. As the youngsters do like to call their activities ‘lit’ or speak of their ‘blazin’.” Although he said it as if he didn’t know, the twinkle in his eyes said otherwise.

 

No wonder all the Dianite followers had a sarcastic wit. Jordan had half a mind to just walk back out, but the vibes he had gotten from whatever _that_ was weren't any better than _this god_. In a small act of defiance for the situation he was in, Jordan muttered under his breath: “You aren't my god.”

 

The god chuckled at that. It was low and dark. “Oh, you mortals,” he patronized. “Always so clueless!” Jordan found himself glaring at the god and he crossed his arms as his hands viscerally curled into fists. Childish as pouting was, he wasn’t above it considering the circumstances. When he got back, Tom could expect for every woe suffered here to be repaid in kind, with interest. “When you've been sacrificed you become the god's property.” Even though he was dead, Jordan's heart stilled for a moment and he felt his face drain of color. Dianite continued, “But I'm a nice, friendly god!” His heart hadn’t resumed beating. “ _If_ you follow my rules I won't have to enforce that. Now, come now.” He leaned his head back to look at Jordan with a deeply-humored grin. “Refer to me correctly.”

 

 _Kill me again_.

 

“My lord,” Jordan gritted out, gnashing his teeth together. His fingers curled into his biceps, nails digging in through the cloth as he tried to contain his anger. It was harder. When you were already dead what'd you have to lose by getting mad?

 

“Excellent,” Dianite said, hardly caring about the malevolence directed at him. “Now what did you need?”

 

Jordan wished he had just taken his luck with the beast in the halls, even if he was sure it would have ripped him to shreds. His gut twisted at the notion and Jordan swallowed the feeling of a creeping sickness in his throat. “Nothing,” he said with a shake of his head.

 

He turned to the door, but the bolt on the door had clicked shut. From behind him he heard the lazy thud of the book being closed. A wave of panic seized his throat and Jordan twisted at the door knob.

 

“Stop,” Dianite commanded and Jordan felt his hands still against his will. “Speak the truth.” The magic coursed through him and Jordan couldn't keep his mouth from opening.

 

“There's something in the hallways with glowing yellow eyes that had intentions of attacking me,” Jordan's voice came out of his mouth toneless and without life. It was a strange forced feeling that made his mind run in circles and his throat strain.

 

The god's eyebrows creased and he pushed Jordan out of the way and opened the door. He glanced up and down the hall, but there was nothing to be found. His control over Jordan lapsed and the man collapsed to his knees, clutching his throat. It burned from the words ripping from him. The god closed the door solemnly and locked it, but more to keep whatever suspected beast out there from coming back in. His eyes darted back to Jordan and this time when the magic washed over him, it didn't control him, but it did violate his mind. It was tearing through him looking for something.

 

“You weren't hallucinating,” Dianite concluded, “Strange as it may be—some people seem to suffer enough stress being sacrificed their mind comes up with all these types of horrors.” The god released him and Jordan collapsed again groaning. The god didn't pay him any mind and quickly crossed his room and pulled a dusty book from the shelf.

 

Jordan watched him, his face pressed against the royal red rug with yellow trimmings. He had a killer headache and his throat burned. Nothing about his day had been going well. First, Mot likely tracked mud onto his freshly polished floors, second, he was burned _alive_ , third, he was being pushed around like a puppet on a string by a god. Through his blurred vision, he saw Dianite was surveying a page in a book.

 

The tired man sat up and reached a hand up to the door knob and then lock. If the beast was gone, he was going back to his room, thank-you very much. He pushed it open and was about to step out when Dianite glanced up. The door slammed shut again and locked, nearly shattering Jordan's fingers in the process. Dianite's magic seized him again and he found himself forced to walk to a chair near the green flamed fireplace. He was sat down and the magic released.

 

Jordan slumped in the chair, but didn't try to get up again. Resigned his eyes followed the god as he poured over a particular page. The god's lips turned up in a half smirk and half frown. As if he wasn't quite sure how to take the information. As much as he was irritated at the god, he was curious.

 

“What is it?” Jordan asked, not able to help it. Dianite glanced to him, the bronze orbs flickering before the god sighed dramatically. He closed the book he had been scanning and stood there for a moment still with a humorless smile before he shook his head and tossed the book back onto its pile.

 

“Either someone is so unbelievably bad at sacrificing someone—not Mot and the boyo, _they_ followed the rules in their entirety—or… _or_ they're trying to make my life difficult,” Dianite muttered. Jordan waited for more, but the god seemed reluctant to explain. He passed Jordan and gracefully slid into his earlier seat. He leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands in thought before deciding. “I'm sure you've heard tales of the souls of recently dead being snatched and ripped apart by some beast?”

 

Jordan shook his head, once again wondering what Tom and Mot had signed him up for. His gut sunk lower and his chest tightened at the thought of being in danger at being ripped apart while he was here. Dianite looked a little surprised.

 

“Really? When _I_ was a child I was told stories like that, mostly by Mianite, but they're true nonetheless,” Dianite mused. “I suppose they only tell children happy stories these days that don't warn of the perils of society?”

 

The Ianite follower wondered if wishing himself home worked as well as it did for Dorthy in the _Wizard of Oz_. “No? A pity. I suppose you'll just have to learn the stark reality today.”

 

Dianite conjured a bottle of aged whiskey and two glasses. He offered one to Jordan who politely refused. The god rolled his eyes and let the glass disappear before pouring himself a glass.

 

“I've always found the truth goes down better with alcohol,” Dianite suggested taking a greedy sip from his own glass. “However, I suppose a bit of moral crushing news is a good refresher.” The god reclined in his chair again, propping his feet on a footrest that Jordan hadn't seen before. Likely, it had just been conjured.

 

“There are soul eating creatures in my realm currently. Not created by me, of course, or welcomed here, but they're the result of precisely conducted malevolent deeds.” At that Jordan snorted. He had sat up in his chair and stared at the god in disbelief. Dianite regarded him with a look of annoyance. “Yes?”

“And there aren't any malevolent deeds done by your or your followers?” Jordan questioned. He thought back to all the times Tom's 'friendliness' lead to him suffering.

Dianite groaned irritated. He clearly wasn't impressed how little Jordan knew.

“You are truly oblivious to the world you live in,” the god stated. He cast his eyes to the ceiling. “I should have assumed since there's not many books on the lore of this land that your gods raised you as barbarically as they acted themselves. What happened to scriptures? Tests? Written law?

  
Affronted, Jordan glowered at the god. “Excuse me, I wasn't here my whole life. I wound up here by accident,” he argued.  “And my gods, my goddess, didn't have time to tell any of us anything because they were at war.”

 

His words didn't convince Dianite. The god just waved it off. “There's always wars. My brother and sister didn't always agree with me either. Well, on second thought, my brother never agreed with me.” Jordan opened his mouth, but the god shook his head. “Another time. Right and wrong don’t exist; a god's word and actions don’t fit the morality scale as a whole, and followers are only judged accordingly with their ability to follow the words of the god.”

 

“That’s insane,” Jordan said, but then stopped, and Dianite looked at him, waiting for him to really consider it. Jordan was, he narrowed his eyes at Dianite, “But some of the things—Dianite of this past realm have done in the sense of right and wrong and the things the Mianite of your world have done…are wrong. Very, _very_ wrong.”

 

“But not to our followers or our own courts, now are they? I seem to remember that Boner fellow being all too eager to kill children for his god?” Jordan winced. “To judge a follower of my brother’s for acting on justice in my court could very much be a case of cold revenge,” Dianite said, “You see, we define our rules of morality, as gods, because who sits above us—well, save a few that you may have found…much, very _much_ less forgiving,” Dianite said, and Jordan nodded reluctantly. “You wouldn’t want the World Historian defining what went, now would you? Or the titan of destruction that handles your world on a whim, Nvidia?”

 

Jordan conceded. “I see your point, but I don’t come from here, and my morals…what I’ve learned…don’t…they don’t always align with Ianite’s entirely, and they don’t certainly align with Tom’s or even Tucker’s at times.”

 

“They aren’t expected to,” Dianite said, “Not entirely, then things would be dull. As the God of Chaos,” Dianite tilted his head, “I rather enjoy it when followers of _other_ gods aren’t entirely loyal or if my own dilly-dally in ‘rogue’ sessions from time to time. It’s sometimes a lovely break and the things I make them do to prove their loyalty again are delightful and amusing.” Jordan winced, remembering the many times Tom’s ‘trials’ resulted in him trying to kill Tucker or himself. Dianite rolled his eyes. “Such is the life of a god, don’t trouble yourself with the philosophy and the moral dilemmas there. When you fail this world’s Ianite, as I can see she worries that your time spent away has shaken your loyalty…”

 

“That’s not going to happen,” Jordan said uncomfortably. Sitting up and straightening himself to his…full height (which was far remarkably shorter than Dianite who even lounging was much taller at his easy frame of six-foot four.)

 

“A matter of ‘when’, Glitter-Lap, not ‘if’,” Dianite reprimanded, a soft purr to his voice. “All it takes is too much debt to…perhaps another god—and as you admitted, failing alignment issues,” Dianite leaned back in his chair as Jordan grew a mixture of angry and flustered. His face tinging red.

 

“Great, so now that you’re done berating me about my allegiance with Ianite and my failing grasp to understand your moral compass—tell me, what malevolent deeds does it take for your followers to commit for this to happen.”

 

Dianite smiled. “To the point again—perhaps, it is not for the faint-hearted Ianitee to hear what Dianite followers do that’s worse than what you’ve come to know as ‘bad’ from boyo,” Dianite mocked, and Jordan opened his mouth before realization set in.

 

“Get out of my head,” Jordan snapped. He searched for any sign, like earlier, any phantom feeling of what had happened earlier, but could find none.

 

“Why?”

 

“What I think, whether it concerns you or not, is private,” Jordan said frustrated, his fingers curling into the arm-wrests.

 

“You wouldn’t have known I was in there if I hadn’t commented on it,” Dianite said. Jordan glowered at him. “And now what difference does it make? I’m not prying for the sake of prying, I’m merely inquiring on your unvoiced feelings and applying them to the situation,” Dianite explained, pouring himself another shot. “As Thomas does make a habit of saying, you _do_ get ‘buthurt’ over every little deed done to you.”

 

“Is my privacy even guaranteed to a degree here?” Jordan questioned, anger adding a biting inflection to the words.

 

“Possibly later, for now, you are serving as a useful tool for the situation at hand—after all, we’re going to discuss you getting rid of them—I can hardly do it,” Dianite said, and took the shot as Jordan retorted.

 

“No—no—you are asking me to—those are literal soul-eating monsters, and I’m a soul—what in the _Nether_ do you think I can do about that?”

 

“Nothing about them, you’ll be dealing with the source material—which brings me back to our earlier dilemma and most important one—what did the Dianite followers do, or rather, the _Modesteps._ ”

 

The green fire suddenly dimmed, and Jordan, anger still hot on his tongue considered saying that was the least of his worries, but there was a severity in the air that held it. “You see, Jordan, those soul-eating monsters are only the…’babies’ of a much larger creature that should it break free—which is what likely its creators will intend—chaos would not be the correct word. Mayhem. An apocalypse. As the gods of another realm use, Ragnarok—the end of the end.”

 

Jordan swallowed, and the sour-taste and upsetting feeling in his stomach returned. Shadows were cast across the gods face and a menacing glow was rising in his eyes, flickering like flames.

 

“It can devour living souls, and given the chance, any weakened god—which no doubt will occur once all or most followers are obliterated. Yet, I am going to be held responsible and will no doubt have already angered your realm’s gods once they have learned what these followers—ones I wouldn’t have welcomed with their streak of unrefined chaos under _my_ name, but alas are mine nonetheless—have started the end. Now—it’s a simple matter to fix, and that’s where you come in.”

 

Dianite was staring straight at him, the glowing embers in his eyes flickering with both a dark-humor of the situation and the glowing danger of the situation.

 

“The Modesteps are punishable by me, but seeing as they likely have done all they can to screw up this situation, will be untouchable unless you can un-work some of the damage they’ve done with your handy new form. Meaning, you need to…recover and politely place back whoever’s soul they took before they feed it to the Mother.”

 

Jordan took a deep breath in, stifling his already racing anxiety with all the new parts of this situation that were unwelcome and highly damaging. “This sounds like any plan that’s going to fail—” _like a video-game objective_.

 

“If it does fail, I guarantee you will be the first to feel my wrath,” Dianite remarked.

 

“Why me? Why punish me for something that isn’t even my jurisdiction?”

 

“Because, Glitter-Lap, I am a god and a god-eating monster, at the will of two unreasonable men, is a cause for great distress; I have the power to unleash my frustrations on those in my domain,” Dianite sassed, his horns flaring briefly with fire beneath the bone before diminishing.

 

Jordan was feeling far more weight on him than he would like. “You’re just like the old Dianite, except with a better vocabulary.”

 

“And you’re just like Spark, but with more childish nuances and a gullibility and naivety that leaves far too many ways to exploit you,” Dianite pointed out, and Jordan snapped.

 

“Fine, since I have no choice in the matter, what will I be doing?”

 

Dianite let the green fire fill the room, brightening it again, and he stood, pacing. “That’s the real question, first, I’ll have to figure out exactly _what_ they did. No doubt some poor soul you may or may not know is trapped somewhere in the Nether or in their control and finding and locating them could take some time. There’s also the specifics, involving ritual materials—but I’ll handle that, and then there’s a few…small…problems you may encounter. The ‘babies’ of Mother are often or not…damaged souls, ones that were improperly handled resulting in a zombie or other beast.”

 

Jordan nodded, but as Dianite waited, pausing to watch his expression, Jordan’s face drained of color. “Capsize?” he said in a soft, hurt tone.

 

“You do follow, good,” Dianite resumed pacing, “—while the beast you’ve seen in the hallway is their standard form, if the damaged soul happens to think it’s a good idea to…appeal to your gullibility, it’s important you do not trust anyone, other than me, during this mission. That’s dead, anyway.”

 

“Her soul was damaged?” Jordan questioned.

 

 Dianite nodded, with a shrug. “Ianite is no goddess of the dead or the Nether, she cannot return souls and while her attempt was admirable, and likely done in an attempt to feel free from what the other Dianite did to her, it did not do any good to the unfortunate Captain,” Dianite said, studying Jordan as emotions ran across the Ianitee’s face. The calculating look in Dianite’s eyes only hid again when Jordan turned to him.

 

While speaking the truth, embellishing was far hotter on the tongue and ears. She could have revived Capsize perfectly healthy, ‘tis a shame the real issue was Tom simply didn’t let her—likely by accident, gripping all of his powers when given them for such a short amount of time and blocking off her control to the dead. He could see the seed of doubt already in Jordan, and was it truly a crime to water it? He had not sowed it. It was already there to begin with.

 

“So, why would they not just attack me in their monster form—I’m kind of defenseless,” Jordan questioned, and Dianite grinned.

 

“You think I would send you out there weaponless? While I’ve seen you have a knack for a bow and arrow—I’ve also seen you’re far-better suited for swordplay.”

 

Jordan narrowed his eyes, and Dianite pretended he hadn’t used innuendo intentionally. Aloof, he perused some of the books dealing with rituals as Jordan stood up, following him and crossing his arms.

 

“Is that a comment on my sexuality?”

 

Dianite’s expression twisted into an amused grin. “Was there something there different from the standard guess?” He didn’t have to mind-read to know the question perturbed Jordan.

 

“…no,” Jordan said with a huff, and he strode away from Dianite, leaving the god to look through his books.

 

The god let out an amused chuckle and cast a look over his shoulder to see what the man was doing. He was perusing the shelfs himself, scanning titles with apparent curiosity and flipping some books open and scanning through the texts. Dianite hummed, and scanned the ritual book, gathering what details he needed, but he had to admit his eyes were drawn to the sacrificed Ianitee. He had been regaled with the tale of how they had found a willing sacrifice by Tom, who had escaped his own fate as a sacrifice, seeing how Mot was the one who knew how to do the ritual.

 

Amused, Dianite watched as the Ianitee was lost in whatever book he was reading, brows furrowed. He surveyed the man, and appreciated what the outfit did for him—how it made him look. It wasn’t like the man was of…a terrible fashion. It had improved, but overall, it was terrible. At least while in the god’s realm he would be—albeit forced—in far more fashionable clothes. And flattering. The man had put on a great deal of muscle, and it would not harm him to accent it well.

 

The god was caught staring, but unlike mortals, he felt no reason to make any hasty lies or refuse to admit what he had been doing. He had been staring, and as Jordan stared at him, unsure of the reason why, Dianite considered saying why, but there was something, perhaps Jordan’s touch of naivety was charming to a degree. And naïve wasn’t the right word. Jordan was cunning and able to see through _most_ of Thomas’s plans, but he was naïve in the fact he thought everything he approached was defined by some rules and logic. And as he learned repeatedly, rules were not Tom’s strong suit.

 

“What?” Jordan questioned.

 

Taste or embarrassing him. One was an image. One was a pleasure. It was his vacation after all.

 

“Your ass looks good in those pants,” the god said, and tore out the pages he needed from the ritual book before flipping through the next one.

 

Jordan didn’t respond, and Dianite did glance over hoping for the flustered anger again. Instead, he was greeted with Jordan having went further into the shelves. Dianite sighed. Of course. The man spent too much time around Thomas who couldn’t go without making sexual innuendos at every turn. The god scanned the new ritual page, looking for the information he needed, before he ripped the pages out. There was no time for care, and these books were due to be scribed again anyway to ensure longevity.

 

Drumming his fingers on a book title, he reached out, slowly and carefully with his magic so as not to startle the man, and found him nowhere. In the room at least. Dianite’s mouth twisted unpleasantly. He reached further out, seeing the room in its whole, book shelves gone, and he tilted his head at the door formerly hidden behind a messy stack of books that opened up to descending stairs.

 

The previous Dianite had no taste with good architecture. Secret doors were something to be placed purposeful, not willy-nilly. Dianite threw the pages he had just torn out into the green fire which reflected in his eyes and the tips of his horns before he left, following the man.

 

The god’s eyes were unaffected by the darkness and it didn’t take long to find the man. He wasn’t intent on escaping the god’s presence, that was _clear_. Sarcasm. The man was well on his way through the dungeon-esque space, using a match as light-source. Dianite scanned the room, and shook his head at the dramatics of the old Dianite. A dungeon beneath a library—with traps? Poor taste, but he could see why. It was the god’s horde of weapons and powerful artifacts he stole from users lying beyond hardly noteworthy traps. Beneath a library wasn’t entirely a bad idea, but it was poorly executed.

 

Dianite could see the array of non-deadly and easily deadly traps, only a few of which were able to trap spirits as well, and none able to kill them. Poor design. He waited all of two seconds for the yelp and Jordan plummeted into a pit with spikes. Spikes that would hardly affect him, since his predecessor hadn’t thought to tip them with ghost-steel, but seeing as this realm failed to harvest many valuable materials, it wasn’t too surprising.

 

Unfazed, Dianite continued his leisurely pace until he was two feet away from the pit. He waited, cocking his head to the side and listening. Clearly fazed himself, Jordan’s breath was loud and heavy—especially considering he didn’t need to breath. Hyperventilating. Dianite teleported into the pit, not giving away his self, silently watching Jordan staring at his feet with horror. He was faintly glowing now—his more corporal form having faded with the disturbance leaving him the cliché ghost.

 

Dianite grabbed Jordan by the shoulders and teleported them out, startling the man back into his corporal form—luckily, after his feet had already cleared the spikes. “…Dianite?” Jordan questioned.

 

“No, a beast that’s about to tear your soul apart…” He waited and heard Jordan snort. “Yes, Dianite.” He waited a moment for a sign of appreciation, but Jordan didn’t say anything, waiting for Dianite to let go off his shoulders.

 

“Any gratitude or should I drop you back in?”

 

“Thank-you,” Jordan said without a touch of thanks.

 

“Have you already forgotten how to address me?”

 

“As an asshole,” Jordan said mouthily, and Dianite had half a mind to truly do something to warrant such a title, but instead, he just dropped Jordan back into the pit. Judging by the fact it wasn’t followed by a howl of pain, he had enough sense to turn back into a spectral form.

 

Jordan was laughing, a soft chuckle and Dianite rolled his eyes. He was sassing the god of this realm now with some new-found confidence. As appreciated as some sass went—cooperation was going to need to be key in the next few days.

 

After a moment of quiet silence he heard Jordan sigh. “…My… _lord_ ,” Jordan said reluctantly, “I would be grateful if you pulled me back out.”

 

“Would you? You weren’t the first time,” Dianite reflected, and turned his back to the pit, extending his magic and eliminating the dungeon from his mind, focusing solely on the man’s spirit, before he reached a hand out with his hand and simply summoned Jordan’s soul to him.

 

The man was affronted about this, having practically been dragged out by the scruff of his neck by magic and deposited not too nicely at the edge of the pit.  Jordan stood up, dusting himself off and studied his arms curiously, clearly forgetting to show Dianite gratitude.

 

Dianite was miffed, but he wasn’t going to shove the Ianitee back into the pit.

 

“So, I can change forms?” Jordan questioned.

 

“Yes, at will if given enough time and practice, but it’s not entirely important as you’d like to think,” Dianite muttered as Jordan studied his hands before letting them fall and surveying the now lit room with wonder.

 

“Huh, so this is where he kept it all,” Jordan commented. He minded the traps and studied a battle axe on the wall. “Cool.”

  
Dianite surveyed some of the visible weapons and rubbed his chin in thought. “Perhaps, we can find you a decent weapon in here,” the god commented and he saw Jordan’s eyes dart to some of the bows. As he instinctively took some steps towards them, Dianite whirled him around with magic as the god started heading to the long-swords with heavy and sharp blades. Good for cutting through those beasts. He needed just to find a solid one and enchant it with some ghost-steel.

 

“I’m not a big fan of long-swords,” Jordan said, watching as the god perused them. Dianite glanced at Jordan’s arms. Muttering to himself, the god examined some of the swords and studied Jordan’s form. Which one would be the best fit? Jordan continued his rant, “I’d be far better with a bow-and-arrow—what are you doing?”

 

Dianite had grabbed Jordan’s arm and was feeling the muscle with an inquisitive look. Reflexively, Jordan drew his arm back, but Dianite checked his shoulders and then his abs with a firm grasp, and Jordan stepped away, covering his stomach. “Why? Did you really need to touch me for this?”

 

“Trying to decide how heavy of a sword you can wield,” Dianite said voicing his thoughts, and chose the heaviest of the swords. “This one.”

 

Jordan hesitantly took it and after a moment of holding it: “It’s too heavy…I like my swords light.”

 

“Too light?” The god shook his head in disbelief. “—you generally resort to using a flimsier blade, because your content with just waving a blade around if needed and relying entirely on your bow-and-arrow for everything else.

 

“Well…yeah,” Jordan said and he hesitantly moved the sword feeling the swing of the blade. It didn’t catch him entirely off-guard, which Dianite guessed the man’s only hesitation was the increase in weight, he was perfectly able to wield it.

 

“I feel like this could kill someone in one swing,” Jordan said, but with a tone of complaint. Thomas or Mot would often say the same words with much, _much_ more pleasure in their voices.

 

“That is the point of a sword,” Dianite said, scanning the remaining swords to confirm there was no other ones that caught his eye.

 

“I mean…” Jordan stammered, before hesitating. “I don’t usually attack to kill—it’s to apprehend or momentarily stop them. Like in Tom’s case, to stop him from stealing,” Jordan said.

 

“You had arrows that could very well decimate most humans,” Dianite commented. Deeming the rest of the swords uninteresting for now, he turned his attention back to the human. Later he’d be go through this inventory with a careful hand and decide what to keep, and what to do away with.

 

Jordan shook his head. He let his arm and the sword fall to his side. “Ianite’s arrows would have never killed an innocent, they were reflections of her will—they wouldn’t ever kill someone…permanently…unless they did something really bad.”

 

Dianite sucked his teeth. There it was again. The rules. Naivety. “You get to judge whether someone’s innocent—isn’t that exciting,” the god said with exaggerated excitement, as Jordan stared at the sword. He looked at it with reluctance and made to drop it back into another pile, but Dianite stopped him, grabbing Jordan’s wrist. Staring into the brown eyes of the man far shorter than he was, Dianite growled:

 

“Unless you want me to soul-bind it to you—keeping very much in mind, you are in fact, _just a soul_ , right now…”

 

Jordan rolled his eyes pulling his wrist free with a dignified huff, but he didn’t throw the sword back into the pile. “I so as much breath and it’s a threat from you.”

 

“You complain too much,” Dianite groaned, striding past him, “A nagging husband you’d make.”

 

“Like anyone would marry you,” Jordan retorted, as he followed the god out as he navigated the traps. His eyes forlornly looked to the bows again, his fingers twitching.

 

“How you wound me,” Dianite gasped, and stopped suddenly, teleporting and leaving Jordan to nearly fall into the pit again, He caught himself in time and looked up at the god with a sharp glare. The god merely raised an eyebrow. “Are you coming or should I expect you at a later time?” Dianite said, and Jordan narrowed his eyes. He minded his step and the god waited there, smiling wryly as Jordan reached him.

 

“Why do you keep staring?” Jordan snapped.

 

He made this far too easy. “I expressed it earlier—would you like me to rephrase it?”

 

Jordan rolled his eyes. Sarcastically he muttered, “Sure, go ahead.”

 

“I would fuck you in those pants,” Dianite said, turning his back to the Ianitee and he waited, tongue in cheek as he felt Jordan bristle, but there it was—the angry and embarrassed flush.

 

“God, you’re worse than Tom,” Jordan muttered.

 

“It’s My God, but I appreciate the effort,” Dianite murmured as Jordan shook his head. He climbed the stairs as Dianite ascended easily. He closed the staircase after Jordan left it and watched as the Ianitee adjusted his grip on the sword, turning to Dianite expectantly. Returning to business, Dianite combed a hand through his hair, minding his horns.

 

Jordan sighed. Sexual harassment or just too strong of a come-on? Yeah, either way he was filing a complaint. A complaint attached to a handle of a sword in Tom’s stomach. Yet, he felt strangely flattered. He wasn’t dense; he knew he was attractive—especially, it seemed, to the men-with-a-preference-for-men group in this realm. Coincidentally, that fell with the Dianite crowd. Mot had casually mentioned to him that both Dianite and him agreed he was highly attractive and if he wanted, an offer for a threesome, or just some one-on-one time was on the table. At the time Jordan’s god had just kind of died and even if Mot was handsome, he was also willing to backstab Jordan or kill him in an instant. Not that the god wouldn’t hesitate to do the same, but he was also flattered being called a partner rather than an asset, like Tom.

 

Also, it felt kind of good to his self-esteem to have been wanted by two gods. He counted Ianite. Even if it was misplaced attraction.

 

“Business, Glitter-Lap,” Dianite said, and Jordan looked at him, giving him the stink-eye. If he could stop mind-reading. It was kind of rude. Dah-rude. Dianite rolled his eyes. “Your sense of humor could use some work.”

 

“Your professional boundaries should be better established,” Jordan retorted, and Dianite smiled. Affectionately, he showed a flash of teeth, before settling for his business expression.

 

“I’ve settled what information I need from the rituals. I’ll be searching for where they are in the Nether while _I should be_ relaxing,” the god muttered exasperated. “Likely close by, but before I send you out on your own, I’ll give you some guidance. And I’ll be enchanting your sword tonight. In the meantime, I suggest staying close, but if you desire, risk it.” The god said, and Jordan handed him the sword as Dianite slid back into his earlier seat, propped his legs up and went back to sipping a drink.

  
“You couldn’t…get started on it now?” Jordan pressed and Dianite waved his hand. He gestured to the seat beside him and Jordan shook his head. He was too tired. Today was too stressful, although only a few hours awake he felt oddly drained. Dianite cast a look at him.

 

“Tired?”

 

“Ya know, most people can’t hear thoughts,” Jordan muttered.

 

“It’s written on your face—you’ll find trying to maintain a corporal form as a spirit wears on you. You’ll want to stop regarding yourself as human if you want to save energy,” Dianite said. Jordan looked at his hands and thought about it.

 

“I thought you said it didn’t matter,” Jordan questioned.

 

Dianite shrugged, mixing himself a drink that was faintly glowing. “It doesn’t. However, if you’d like not to be the equivalent of a poor-man’s phone battery, I would suggest you relax more and accept your death for the moment.”

 

“Accept my death? Relax?” Jordan squeaked, “Excuse me, but those aren’t easy—”

Dianite tsked. “I’m not saying they are. I’m saying how you can solve your problem. But for now, rest up, boyo,” Dianite offered, “There’s a chair right here. Close your eyes and relax. Drink something if need be, just leave me to my devices.”

Jordan almost wanted to be petulant; say he would rather not, but  the god was clearly stressed and although still sassy and mouthy, the situation was not good on him. It wasn’t good on Jordan either, to be fair, but complaining hadn’t served him any better so far. He could blame Tom all for it later when the week ended—and Ragnarok was averted. Dianite still needed to respect any of his boundaries. Preferably all of his boundaries, but although the god wasn’t handsy, he was far more the “I’ll know your deepest and darkest secrets” type of annoyance.

Yet, from much less interactions and much less compromising situations, Jordan hadn’t minded, and sometimes enjoyed Dianite’s company. Just now—alone—with the god. It became a good deal more nerve-wracking.

Jordan clambered into the seat, propped his feet up on the suddenly second-footstool, and side-eyed the god. He was drinking, eyes distant and the fire dimming and rising with his breaths. Eerie, yet strangely sad. The god was reminiscing. He noticed Jordan watching him only moments later, but didn’t directly acknowledge it.

“Ten years ago, no…Twelve…I celebrated my vacation in a much more…happy state. If I had known it would have been my last, before I was murdered, I would have enjoyed it much more. Have let more bygones be bygones,” Dianite said in a low tone, the fire flickering with his words. “My sister, however much I loved her, had been grating on my nerves. I had told her many times my vacation was a break from the other gods so much as my duties and followers.” 

Jordan didn’t interrupt him, and the god continued.

“Mot was a strapping, younger lad. Young as you are now. But more bold. Cleverer. Resourceful. A lad with a daughter however, and of course I wouldn’t expect him to sacrifice himself that year—he didn’t. Many others did, and fruition and joy was brought from the gifts, the people, and the retreat from it all.”

The god paused, and considered his drink. 

“It was much more glamorous, much greater, much livelier than what we sit in now. A dark, rotting library,” he bit the last words out with more venom then intended. “I was at the top of the world, and it all came crumbling down. If not for the void’s favor, I would have returned to not even my better Champion or found a world to flee to when inevitably my realm collapsed.” 

Jordan swallowed, and he idly twisted his fingers around each other and the god took a long sip of his drink. When he finished he set the glass down. His eyes went to the flames. 

“My sister, my land, my people, my followers, my entire existence all wiped away—and I hadn’t even thought of my vacation as spectacular, just an average one—in a streak of far greater ones. Yet now, it was the best one I’d ever had.”

Jordan took it in stride, eyes keenly watching the god and he looked down, empathy shining from nearly the center of his chest, and the god could feel the myriad of emotions flitting across Jordan. Yet, the man himself spoke after a moment, when Dianite didn’t continue.

“I’m sorry, your sister, was…a great leader and goddess,” Jordan said after a moment. “She…didn’t deserve it. You…I’m sorry for your loss,” Jordan said carefully, and the god gave him a small smile over the rim of his glass.

“I appreciate it—you have a good heart, Glitter Lap—some day someone will shatter that for you,” Dianite bit out, and mixed himself a different drink and Jordan frowned. He looked at the god and was about to bite out his own insult, but he saw the look in Dianite’s eyes. 

“…Dadd—Father issues?”

  
The god laughed darkly. “As much as you’re a pretty sight, I won’t be divulging any of my feelings and emotional traumas to you, Glitter-Lap. There’s a reason you follow someone like my sister,” the god said. After a moment, he stood, and he walked to the door planting a seed of fear in Jordan’s gut. Didn’t he just say the soul-monster would…

“The room’s safe. I’ll be back tomorrow—or when you wake,” the god said curtly, before teleporting away.

Jordan leaned back in the chair and stared at the fire. He leaned his head back, and tried to close his eyes. He couldn’t. He hadn’t meant to pry—it was just he had a good feeling from the books and what he knew of World Historian that perhaps Dianite—under the prodigy status—didn’t have it nearly as easy.

Reluctantly, he let his eyes close. If he was ripped apart in his sleep—well, he wouldn’t know.

 


	2. Can't Get You Out Of My Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last Time...
> 
> “The room’s safe. I’ll be back tomorrow—or when you wake,” the god said curtly, before teleporting away.
> 
> Jordan leaned back in the chair and stared at the fire. He leaned his head back, and tried to close his eyes. He couldn’t. He hadn’t meant to pry—it was just he had a good feeling from the books and what he knew of World Historian that perhaps Dianite—under the prodigy status—didn’t have it nearly as easy.
> 
> Reluctantly, he let his eyes close. If he was ripped apart in his sleep—well, he wouldn’t know.  
> 
> Now...

 

  
Turns out—he would know. 

As if soaked in a cold bucket of water—he awoke shivering in strangely damp air. The fire had grown low and a heavy smoke lingered with the smell of pine needles. Jordan looked through his hands with a grimace. He didn’t feel remotely rested at all. Clearly his body agreed with him. Jordan drifted up from the chair, noticing despite his ghostly form he hadn’t fell through the chair. Nor the floor. Logic was odd.

And he also became keenly aware of the scraping sound coming from the stairs to the dungeon and storage area beneath the library. Loud nails dragging across wood repeated with fervent snuffing and excited impatience.

Much too excited to break free and rip into Jordan.

“Uh…Uhhhhhhhhhhh…Oh…crap,” Jordan said, looking around. “Uh…Dianite?” he questioned.

The loud growling continued. He knew that was the soul-eating monster. He just really happened to hope the god was nearby. He did say he would be back when Jordan was awake and he was an omnipresent god—couldn’t he—just—kill this right now. Or do something epic and the sword appear from the flames or a hat. Old references that have probably aged out be damned. He would also settle for pulling the sword out of a pen or rock. Or the book-case. Or thin air.

“Dianite!” Jordan screeched as the growling reached its peak crescendo and the beast broke through the book-case. “Fork—ah fuck it,” Jordan muttered and dived out of the way as the beast—far bigger than he thought it was—grabbed a small-book-case in its maw and threw it. Up close—he could see the beast was easily the size of two-and-a-half grizzly bears. It had no visible teeth strangely, but instead oozing spikes jutting out from its body, and three tongues hanging limply out of its large and odorous maw. At the sight of Jordan, the yellow eyes glowed brighter and uneven sharp teeth were pushed up from its gums. Jordan scanned the room for a weapon, thoughts running wild when the beast lunged.

Startled, he stepped into the wall. And through it.

Jordan stared at the red-stained diorite of the hallway rather than the wood-paneling of the library.

Relieved, Jordan laughed to himself. “Wouldn’t come in handy—would it?” he asked the thin air. “Clearly,” he snorted. The beast would break through that door eventually—so where could he go? He hadn’t exactly ever got a VIP tour of Dianite’s castle before. He had no idea what the lay-out was.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he heard a loud growl and then a thud against the door. He waited, cautiously wondering if the creature could break through the fortified door that was supposed to keep it out. After a good moment, Jordan concluded it couldn’t. Strangely, he was safer outside the room.

But for how long.

Again—he shouldn’t ask. Or even come close to jinxing himself.

The beast howled and Jordan felt chills run through his arms and down his spine as another beast answered. Too close for comfort. Jordan started running again. For being  _very_  well in shape—this felt like he was running with weights on. Being dead did not transfer any of his physical prowess evidently.

A beast came crashing through a door behind him.

Jordan swallowed. The elevator was a few meters away. It would just be a few—

Another beast clambered out of the room next to the elevator shaking off cobwebs. It was bigger than the last one. Jordan’s hand went to his belt, but there was no sword. “Lord Dianite…” Jordan muttered. No response. Clearly it wasn’t the title he wanted. The god was either asleep or ignoring him.

One of the beasts leapt and Jordan stepped into the wall again, and this-time didn’t step through it entirely. Try to see them get him now.

It immediately resorted to tearing down the wall.

Jordan felt a flash of hot pain across his leg that made his vision go violet for a solid few seconds. He stumbled back, swears dying on his tongue as he fell backwards, this time through the floor.

He landed with a painful crack on his tailbone and rolled over on his stomach. Why could he feel that? Jordan let out a groan and clutched his leg where the creature had clawed his leg. Purple light was spilling from it and Jordan instinctively covered it.

Was that his soul? Was it safe for it to be…uh…shining out?

What was that Dianite said about corruption—no he remembered exactly. It was definitely supposed to stay inside. An injured or corrupted soul could easily become one of those things…like what happened to Capsize.

Melancholy was forgotten instantly, as surprising him—one of the beasts had followed him. It was the one from the room—he was in the dungeon again. Surrounded by weapons.

None of which would  _kill_  the beast. Jordan stood quickly, but had to keep crouched, a hand on the wound. He needed something—the pit! If it trapped him—it’ll trap this thing. Right? Maybe he could throw something over it so it couldn’t climb out. He glanced around the dungeon, but couldn’t spot the pit.

But he could spot the hungry beast eying—maybe? Jordan couldn’t actually see where it was looking—his leg. He took a step back and nearly fell. Ah…that’s where the pit was. He fell to his knee to keep from falling in just as the beast jumped at him. Jordan rolled out of the way and the beast fell claws first into the pit, but it was far more dexterous than Jordan because it managed to twist like a cat and dig one of its claws into the edge. It was very close to his leg.

It could bite his leg off—which was just fantastic.

Jordan didn’t hesitate and kicked the beast in the face—regardless of whether it would be wise enough to just open its mouth and screw Jordan over. Luckily, it didn’t. Its claws slipped a centimeter. Jordan kicked it again and the beast howled, falling into the pit.

“My gods,” Jordan snapped, as he heard another answering howl. The beast at the bottom of the pit was twisting and desperately trying to jump out. Jordan was really hoping for a deus-ex-machina lever to flip that would close the pit off before this thing climbed out.

There wasn’t one.

There also wasn’t a convenient multitude of items to throw over the pit. This wasn’t even a fair fight. It’s almost as if he was going to die. Unless Dianite made an appearance. Anytime now. Jordan sighed and tore off the vest, grateful it came off, and wrapped it around the injured leg. It stopped the light from pouring out and he tied it nearly painfully tight. He could walk on the leg regardless, but he didn’t want to risk anymore light coming out.

Another beast came from a darkened area of the dungeon—meaning there was another way out—or he could barricade himself in the library. There had to be a way? Jordan hobbled to the weapon piles and didn’t hesitate to notch a bow, aiming it with what  _should be deadly_  accuracy.

The beast didn’t get the message it was supposed to die. Or at least not keep running straight at Jordan. It felt like a truck colliding with him. The air was knocked from him and he felt teeth right over him. He grabbed one of those long swords and as the creature bit into him—he stabbed it.

Well. It let go.

Bad news was that was a shit-ton of light pouring out of his shoulder. And he didn’t have anything to kill it with. And the first beast was climbing out of the pit.

“Dianite,” Jordan choked out. “My god. My lord. My—what the hell ever. Deus Ex Machina. Come on. Gonna die here,” Jordan snapped as he backed up—hand to his shoulder.

He was really hoping on a flash-bang of light and the god with a witty retort. Instead, he had to brace himself with the sword and swat the creature down.

…

The god in question…was…occupied. And it wasn’t until he eventually--without any satisfaction—finished and drank the rest of his long-grown nether-temperature alcohol that he had even had half the mind to check on boyo.

It wasn’t like much time had passed—but he clearly wasn’t going to have a long night full of blissful distractions. Instead—he was reminded how much he missed everything he had established. The long line of business contracts, the strict rules to sacrifices, the plentiful and booming empire he had been establishing since  _seven years old_. All of it. Gone.

Instead. He had to deal with two  _Shadow_  followers that still went under his name to do things. The god huffed angrily and as he teleported into the room—his anger and irritation grew. Lovely. There went the books, the chairs—and not-surprisingly, boyo. Either his sacrifice had died or was well on his way to dying.

He was upset. Really. But this was one of many losses right now and it was all far too overwhelming to really feel deadly upset about it. Dianite took a deep breath and stretched his magic out. Alive. Lovely.  
Just lovely.

The god summoned the sword and teleported himself to Jordan.

…

Jordan was breathless. He had been keeping now an upwards of four beasts at bay, had only suffered one more scratch and was gripping the now broken sword like a life-line. He felt the god arrive, but didn’t even want to acknowledge it.

“Glitter-Lap,” Dianite said, somewhere behind him.

Jordan didn’t look at him, his teeth gritted as he stared down a beast that was trying to consider whether the god was enough of an obstacle to try attacking again. Dianite put a hand on Jordan’s shoulder and the man snapped.

“Do you know how long I just had to fight them off with a non-enchanted sword. If you could kindly go—” Dianite tapped Jordan’s forehead, and didn’t even fell the slight bit guilty when he passed out unconscious. The god turned to the beasts, and only one cowered, the rest took a fighting stance.

The god cracked his neck. “I didn’t have time for that, Glitter-Lap,” Dianite muttered. He hadn’t used a sword for a while, but he wasn’t going to bring the attention of Mianite or Ianite by smiting the beasts. Easily one of the beasts lunged for Jordan’s leg and Dianite stepped over the man and impaled the beast through the head.

While it was stuck on the sword, he pushed the beast jumping at him into the pit, and crumbled the pit after it, trapping it under rubble. The two-remaining started to retreat and Dianite pulled the sword free and teleported. He stabbed one through the eye and grabbed the other by its horns and pulled the horns free, watching as its life faded from its eyes.

Easy. But a good cathartic burn. As its body disintegrated he pulled the sword free and maneuvered back to Jordan’s soul. He knelt over the man and sighed. He ran his hand over the air in front of Jordan, examining the extent of the damage.

That was dandy. He nearly just let the man get corrupted that easy. The god pushed his hair back and tapped Jordan’s forehead again. “Go…” Jordan swallowed, realizing time had passed. He went to bat Dianite’s hand out of the way, but then felt back—spasming as pain wracked him.

That was usually a good sign. “Tell me your name.”

“You know—” Jordan gritted out.

“Your name,” Dianite said, and Jordan rested his head back as a spasm of pain hit him.

“Jordan. Captain Sparklez,” Jordan said in a quick breath before gripping his shoulder.

“Relax,” Dianite said, putting his hand over Jordan’s forehead. “You’ll mend. Sleep.”

“Not safe here,” Jordan pointed out, but was already falling unconscious.

The god gripped the man’s shoulder and teleported.

Back to his room—the library was compromised for the moment.

The problem was worse than he thought.

He lifted Jordan bodily and dropped him on the bed, already rechecking his spells. The wards on the bedroom weren’t meant to deter soul-eating beasts, but nearly everything else. He supposed should they come along—he’d have something to let out his pent-up frustrations on.

He had turned a blind-eye on the castle and this was what he was left to deal with. He began the intricate, but familiar process of mending the soul. His fingers were careful, eyes drifting closed as he recalled simpler times. Richer times. Times where he didn’t need to worry about sabotage, because no one dared to. Disappearances in the night. Letters to families saying a trip gone wrong. Sometimes public or obvious executions.

But this Dianite apparently employed simpler ‘kill them here and now’ methods—which weren’t effective enough.

The Modesteps would have already been fearing for a Dianite’s return if that was the case.

One or two beasts in his castle was a small crack in the defense. More than that means the Modesteps had this planned well in advance and in his busied days before the vacation he had been wrapped up in negotiating with the Pirates. Something he planned not to do for very long. He had always been a god of trade on the sea, land and air. Anywhere trade was to be done, he was the god drawing the strings. Having to smile, closed-lipped and all pleasantries around his not-sister who had rejected many of his requests, including his own pirate crew. Just a singular voyage he promised (for now until he recruited more) with Mot captaining, and Tom and Alyssa of course—as well as some Ianite members such as Martha, Glitter-Lap, and Andor.

She saw straight through that and said unless it was her men and women in charge of the ship, as in  _her dimension’s_ , she wasn’t allowing it. He even wagered letting the ‘Captain of Glitter’ captain the ship (so long as Mot understood he was to control what he could behind the scenes and boyo understood if Mot killed him in the middle of the night in a well-planned mutiny it wasn’t personal). She denied the request still.

Jordan spasmed in pain again despite his unconsciousness, and Dianite opened his eyes, examining the wound on his leg. A thin sliver of the claw of the soulless beast was wedged within the soul—a black void in the violet light, slowly sucking some of it in. He was most definitely unable to remove it at the moment.

While  _his_ sacrifice—Jordan was not his follower. Which means he couldn’t just go willy-nilly shoving his magic into the man and expect it to work. Mending a soul was something he could do—while he was not the Shadows and didn’t deal in death specifically—he dealt in souls and the keeping of them (and punishing and torturing of them). But he was limited on what he could do to souls of another god’s realm. And regardless of Glitter-Lap’s use—he was definitely not revealing the start of Ragnarok by asking Ianite to heal him.

Well, he supposed he could remove it. Just assert his control, change Jordan’s alignment for a…few minutes.

Would Ianite notice?

Most definitely.

Would she assume Ragnarok?

Absolutely not. She would assume Jordan’s time away did truly change him. For the worse in her opinion, but Dianite had to say her Champion came back far more competent then when he entered Dagrun.

See, a soul changed colors based on alignment.

Lawful Good and Lawful Neutral were always Mianite. A dark green.

Neutral Good and True Neutral were always Ianite. A purple to a dark violet.

Chaotic Neutral and Chaotic Good could be Dianite—or the wizards. A rainbow or a bright red to orange.

Very few Dianite followers were true Chaotic Evil—they tended towards the Shadows. As Dianite had to assert time and time again—he was the God of Chaos—not evil. While he did prefer killing, plundering, and otherwise sowing seeds of hysteria—it was in the name of chaos. He was not a merciless dictator.

Chaotic Evil  _could_  be Dianite, and even a few Wizards he’d known, but generally meant a pitch black soul. Syndi could joke all he wanted, but the man was Chaotic Neutral—even at his worst, he held back. If the revival system didn’t exist, he’d be less prone to senseless killing. He didn’t hold a candle to Mot—who was a Neutral Evil more so than Chaotic Neutral.

Neutral Evil—like Mot—could be Dianite—but were truly one of the few alignments that could be  _any_  of the followings. A Neutral Evil Ianite follower would believe balance had to be gotten through ill means. A Neutral Evil Mianite member would seek justice through any means necessary. And of course Shadows. A Neutral Evil wizard was unheard of—Wizards had a habit of doing things in retribution, never purely with malice.

Lawful Evil was evil at its finest—Mianite and the Shadows. That was of poor taste—they could be an Ianite follower—but Dianite would never harbor someone so law-abiding under his name.

While Jordan pledged the idea of Neutral Good—and did a good job of staying in that bubble—he could be  _considered_ Chaotic Good…With both eyes shut, perhaps. The man and his soul were obviously Neutral Good—no breaking him out of that bind. Well—not of Jordan’s own free volition. Maybe some meddling and a few good instances of trauma—like this. Dianite should feel guilty.

Was Jordan further on Ianite’s rocky-trust side?

Yes.

Did that mean much to Dianite?

Since this was not  _his_  sister. No.

He pushed at Jordan’s moral compass—it wouldn’t last long, but emphasized a  _few_  of his misdeeds. Trusting him, for one—taking a sword named the Price of Betrayal and slaughtering the will of Ianite despite the demigod most likely to understand her mother warning him not to—emphasizing Jordan’s careless pursuit of the best materials, and his small prideful streak he got whenever he out-did Thomas or the salty-one.

Jordan’s soul changed a bright-red and Dianite worked quickly, pulling the void-esque shard of claw out and crushing it before closing the wound and letting Jordan’s moral compass spin—trying to figure out what just happened.

Amused, he had to admire Jordan’s soul didn’t change back instantly. Red looked far better on him, but it was already taking on a mauve tone as he returned to his beliefs and the god stood. Kneeling on a bed was not his style—bedside manner was for anyone else. Those were some of Jordan’s better traits in his opinion. One of these days… He was also hoping to realign the fox one of these days. She had a good taste for chaos—and being in the shadow of Mianite left her open to some deviations from the norm.

As he turned, checking something he snapped his fingers—Jordan waking up, gasping for breath before clutching where his wounds used to be. “You should rest,” Dianite commanded, laying the sword out. “I’m going to see how much of this castle is still under sigils.”

Jordan found himself uninjured, and the vest was now gone—thank-god. He wasn’t used to wearing one. He also wasn’t anymore well-rested. Despite being knocked out on command twice. Jordan sat up, and he saw Dianite turn his head just slightly.

“You’re terrible at following directions.”

“You’re terrible at giving them,” Jordan snapped. “Stay put—totally safe, my a—butt.” He was fuming, but his attention was drawn to the sword, and the glowing white enchantment on it. Dianite sighed.

“I suppose if you want to wander around, unable to corporally interact with anything—by all means, go ahead. The sword won’t pass through walls—nor will you be able to wield it while incorporeal,” as Dianite was speaking Jordan reached for the sword. His hand passed through it and Jordan considered his hand. Dianite waited.

He should have guessed. Quick-learning Ianitee.

Jordan’s hand became corporeal, but not the rest of him. He picked up the sword. Jordan smirked.

“See who mends your soul with that shit-eating grin on your face,” Dianite muttered, but sternly reached for the sword. “I’m not leaving the room—I’m doing it from here, if that’s what you’re feeling insecure about, I am a god—I can astral project.” To his surprise, but relief, Jordan did hand it to him, leaning against the wall, visibly tired. He looked around the room, taking it into more detail.

“This is your room,” Jordan guessed.

“It is.”

“Fancy,” Jordan mused.

“Your opinion is valued highly,” Dianite said, settling into one of his lounging chairs. “Do be quiet—I plan to attempt and see what the Modesteps have done- Don’t go around messing everything up, or I’ll have to take back my opinion of you as more refined then Thomas.”

Jordan snorted, but didn’t disturb the god. The god’s horns had begun to glow an eerie green, and his eyes glowed with the same luminescence, weirdly wide open. It was a sight to see, and he ogled it for a moment, before he became more curious of the rest of the room.

Besides the bed, which he felt minuscule in since it was easily outfitted to fit someone up to seven feet tall rather than the average six—and the god’s pinnacle of arm chairs arranged neatly for his habit of lounging and discussing business—there was a desk. Large. Clean. And made of dark oak wood and what he hoped wasn’t human bones.

It also glowed. And there was lava beneath the chairs in front of the desk, and he didn’t fail to notice the lever activated floor beneath those chairs. Or how the lever was conveniently out of sight for those in the meeting.

Jordan couldn’t even tell if this was the old Dianite’s idea or new Dianite’s—but killing someone during a meeting apparently fitted them both. Jordan eyed the few scrolls open and spread evenly on the desk, but he didn’t feel too motivated to read them.

The window behind the desk over-looked a courtyard that had also improved since their alternate dimension selves. Mot had proudly declared he made us of the castle when in their realm, and either by Spark’s  _actual_ Housing Committee or his own design, had added decorative foliage and a fountain of lava, and distinctly nether décor. The trees were dead and gnarled, but artistically carved to make-up for their inability to hold life.

Jordan eyed the barbed fence surrounding the court-yard and noticed a soul-monster walk through the open gate entrance, unimpaired by any restrictions saying he  _shouldn’t_ be able to do that. It paid the castle no mind, sharpening its claws on one of the trees.

Suddenly, the creature stilled and its eyes began following something. Jordan followed its head movements and pressed his face to the window to see it easier. It was looking at someone. But since it wasn’t lunging and tearing out that person’s soul—either they were alive and too much of a challenge to pull a soul from, or it was scared of the person. Or both.

A familiar white-hood was visible, but the man in question didn’t get any closer and it just made a motion vaguely with a sword and the beast headed towards the castle and disappeared out of view, likely heading into the castle.

So, it could rip Jordan’s soul to shreds later.

Fantastic. Jordan followed the movements of the man in white, knowing perfectly well who it was and strained to see where they were heading, Jordan failed to notice the god had finished his astral projecting far past when he did. He was nearly startled out of his skin when the god absently rested a hand on his shoulder while Jordan was watching what he was  _pretty sure_  was Nadeshot. The god didn’t say anything, following Jordan’s gaze as the man recovered, pulling away from the god’s chest where he had accidentally fallen against it in the scare.Dianite narrowed his eyes, horns faintly glowing and the fountain suddenly exploded, nearly incinerating Nadeshot. Jordan watched as with miraculous luck, Nadeshot managed to use a tree for cover before pausing and—Jordan guessed he was drinking a pot. Nadeshot disappeared from sight and Dianite shook his head.

The lava flowed over the entire court-yard, yet judging by the god’s growl of frustration, Nadeshot hadn’t died.

“He probably had a fire-resistance pot,” Jordan said, and the god sighed. His hand on Jordan’s shoulder squeezed it for a moment before he pulled Jordan gently from the window.

“That won’t save him next time,” Dianite said low and ominous. “Rest up, boyo. You’ll be following them tomorrow while I secure the castle.”

“I think they’ll notice me following them,” Jordan pointed out, but didn’t fight it further as the god gave him a well-meaning shove in the direction of the bed—heading to his brooding chair.

“You’re—in colloquial terms—a ghost. With any ounce of subtlety and silence, they won’t have any reason to suspect they’re being followed,” Dianite reasoned, and Jordan shook his head, sitting on the bed, feeling tiredness rush over him, but far too wracked with nerves to sleep.

“The soul-eating-monsters will notice,” Jordan reasoned.

“Most of them will be roaming the castle—they likely kept a few for a guard, but not an army,” Dianite said, eyes spacing out as he mentally went through it. “Kill the beasts that approach you and figure out what unfortunate soul the miscreants have. If you can only do one task tomorrow, that’s fine. They likely won’t have the time or resources to create more soul-eating-monsters without the other gods intervening.”

Jordan thought on it. “They got this far.”

Dianite huffed. He ran a hand through his hair, one hand straying to rub at a horn absently before settling on the back of his neck. “I’d hope they were competent to find concern in tortured souls being created through innocent civilian deaths—but they’ve shown little in the way of ruling this realm.”

Jordan rolled his eyes. “Ianite hasn’t had the time—she was imprisoned by your alternate for—”

Dianite waved away his comment. “Sleep, boyo.”

There was a look on Jordan’s face. And he faced Dianite head on, a certain set to his mouth. There was a way his arms crossed. He appeared to chew on it for a moment before he spat it out, “You hate being told you’re wrong.”

Dianite narrowed his eyes. His horns flared, green fire curling in his eyes. “This is  _my_  realm and you continue to disrespect me.”

Jordan stood, not wavering. “How about you respect me, and I’ll in turn respect you?” The god watched him with dark eyes, but didn’t react. Jordan continued, “And don’t play the card, ‘I’m a god’—because frankly, I don’t give a damn.”

“You very well should,” the god said, and the torches in the room dimmed as his horns glowed a brighter green. “I am not your  _equal_ , I am your superior, and you  _will_  follow my orders—voluntarily or forced—as they say, if you desire the ‘hard way’, then so be it—I can very well be a  _worse_  god,” Dianite threatened, and he closed the gap between them with an abrupt teleportation, having dragged Jordan to stand before him. “You have done nothing of late to earn my respect, and the situation at hand doesn’t require I give it.”

“Funny, I don’t recall fear being part of respect,” Jordan said evenly, even as he knew the ice was thin enough.

The hand gripping his shoulder was a death grip, and all the lights had went out, the only illumination from the horns of the god. “I will give you one final chance to voluntarily comply.”

Jordan ignored the hand on his shoulder, tilting his head up at Dianite to give him a death stare. “And what then? You need someone to do your bidding right now—all I ask is you at least treat me as if I’m not just a means to an end.”

“You are a means to an end, and I’m not going to soften it or sugar-coat it,” Dianite growled.

“Then we don’t have any agreement.”

“You seem to forget, I can simply control you,” Dianite said, and for emphasis, he gestured down and Jordan for a harsh moment fought the burning in his legs before quickly a burning sensation filled his lungs. He gasped and was forced to kneel. Dianite had released his shoulder and was lording over him, a menacing sight as Jordan grit his teeth, the death glare unwavering at the god. Dianite smiled. “Again—as a…favor to you, I ask—voluntarily or force?”

Jordan returned the smile. “You ask, despite making it an ultimatum before—because you don’t want to expend the power to control me.”

Dianite’s mouth set in a hard line. Jordan felt pain, but it quickly drew away. The god looked at him, sighed, and resigned released his hold on him and Jordan stood from the forced knelt, ignoring the burning in his muscles. “Fine. Have it your merry little way,” Dianite mocked. “What- _ever_  do you want? For me to kiss the ground at your feet?”

Jordan almost rolled his eyes, but Dianite was—if possible—angrier than before. His horns were aflame and although the god was humoring him, he wasn’t going to tick the god off even more then he had to.

“I want you to respect me. Stay out of my head. Don’t force me to do things, and treat me like you have an  _ounce_ of empathy,” Jordan said firmly, even as the god all but burned him alive under the intense stare.

“Oh? Delightful—and while the soul-eating-monsters devour you, next-time I’ll make sure I’m stopping and showing my  _utmost_  empathy,” Dianite said, a hand grabbing Jordan’s chin. “As they rip you to shreds I’ll think about how  _painful_  and  _terrifying_  being mauled from existence would be and reflect on the coming of Ragnarok.” He tilted Jordan’s head back at a painful angle. “And I’ll do you one better then stay out of your head—next time your soul gets close to the point of corruption I won’t meddle with it and just let you be stuck in your ways so that you aren’t  _forced_ to do anything uncomfortable.”

Jordan felt a seed of reluctance to push through plant itself. It was one week, and if he gave-way now it would be a  _very_  miserable one-week, but it was just that—a week. And then whatever aftermath happened. The god was either reading his thoughts again or could see it on his face. “Not so sure are you now? Go on—take your time. It isn’t like the end of the world is upon us.”

It was grating on Jordan and he lost his calm. “Just shut it—I didn’t want to be in this position and I feel humiliated and degraded, and everything that has happened has been the worst experience in my entire life and you—just everything that comes out of your mouth makes me feel less and less.” Jordan hadn’t planned on it, but he had felt a burn in his eyes and he swallowed roughly, ignoring it.

“You mean nothing to me, let alone Ianite—even she has replaced you with the more adept and loyal, Spark,” Dianite said coldly, releasing Jordan’s chin as the man stumbled backwards.

Jordan stared at him numbly, and without another hesitation went through the floor, phasing out of his form. Dianite watched him disappear and let the lights in the room return, the fire bouncing back cheerfully.

It had been cruel. He reflected. But he felt no remorse over making boyo go cry over it. He was a grown man—and although it was traumatic being burned alive and having your soul torn into by monsters—it was hardly anything to write tales about.

Although—the lie about Spark being adept was a bit too much. Ianite did prefer Spark nowadays, but it didn’t mean he was adept. Unwaveringly loyal to Ianite—even after he did knock his sister up and leave after both kids were born—yes. Adept? No.

The god thought on it, and he still felt further dissatisfaction. Was he too easy on him? Something, something that felt like…guilt—no that wasn’t it—was pulling on him. He took the time to pour himself a glass of wine and as he stared down at it, his eyes kept drawing to the place Jordan had disappeared from.

He took a slow sip, savored it, and ran a tongue across his teeth in thought. Dianite was unsettled and while his horns were slowly fading, he felt himself still growing angered. Or frustrated. The god considered pulling Jordan up, putting the man to bed, and indulging in a bottle of wine as he brooded, but he found himself hesitating.

It wasn’t like he was being  _that_  forceful. It wasn’t like he was doing it to hurt boyo. The god felt justified. A few moments passed and he tapped a nail on the rim of the wine glass. The god grimaced. Without further ado, he let the wine glass float over to the table and teleported. He expected to find boyo sniffling and curled up in the fetal position—evocative of perhaps a toddler—but apparently Glitter-Lap took to not just staying still and moping.

The god was not concerned, but more so frustrated. He was not to be trifled with, and yet Jordan kept pushing at his patience. It took him a few moments, but he caught up to Jordan who was making quick work of avoiding him by easily going to higher floors and further down-halls using his incorporeal form to his advantage.

Two could play at that game. As he saw the glimpse of Jordan’s ghost form the god didn’t break Jordan’s vain little request of not touching him, and instead rose a ghost-steel wall right in front of the god. An impressive show of magic if he did say so and before Jordan could make the decision to go up or down, the floor and ceiling above him took on the same glimmering edge. The god let himself go corporeal, taking his time to walk up to Jordan as the soul decided he wasn’t about to press Dianite’s magic capabilities and had crossed his arms, facing away from the god and staring at the blocked paths.

“Glitter-Bottom,” Dianite tried, varying his usual pet-name, “As much as I would not care for watching you be torn apart—it is not the necessary course of action here. It is a week, less than that now—do wipe the tears away and swallow your humility for the time being,” Dianite pressed, and he was met with silence. Without sparing him a look, Jordan vanished through one of the walls he hadn’t covered.

Dianite pressed his lips together tightly and followed the soul. He didn’t have all night, but he could spare an hour. This time, he grabbed Jordan directly by the arm, teleporting a few steps in front of him and grabbing his wrist. “I do wish you’d stop walking off.”

“Let go of me,” Jordan spat.

“Why? You’ll walk off,” Dianite said and pulled Jordan closer to him. “Listen, boy—as much as I understand—”

“No, you clearly don’t,” Jordan said, pulling his own arm back. “Let go of me, I don’t want to deal with you tonight—I want to be alone. I  _want_ to be torn apart by soul monsters. And I want—” Dianite put his hand over Jordan’s mouth, and stared into his eyes.

“Yes? You’d like me not to use my powers directly on you—as I’ve done apprehending you. You want to me to coddle you and let you keep your petty human feelings stalling your actions? So be it, I’ll let you dance around your true intentions and thoughts and make  _sure_  I make you feel  _warm and welcomed_.”

Jordan pulled the hand from his mouth, “I don’t want your insincerity.”

“Then you can have my sincerity,” he snapped with a bitter smirk. “Which is it, Sparkly-Pants—which is it you so desire?”

Jordan pushed away and the god let him, releasing him as the man wrapped his arms around himself. He was shaking ever so slightly. Dianite let out an exasperated sigh and the man hardly looked at him. “Do you want an apology?” the god offered.

“You wouldn’t mean it,” Jordan snapped.

“I wouldn’t…” the god said and sighed. Rubbing his temples he eyed the man out of the corner of his eye. “What can I give you, then? Hm?”

“Nothing, just leave me be,” Jordan said, sinking to the ground in some sort of quiet resolve. He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. The god eyed him and the hall. Those beasts would easily smell him. Gritting his teeth, he nearly threw up in his hands. He wasn’t good with this. Speaking of beasts, one was at the other end of the hall and would approach with time.

Despite his earlier feelings, he was feeling too unsettled by Jordan’s resolve to see him ripped to shreds. He stooped to Jordan’s level, feeling quite childish kneeling, but he did. The man didn’t look at him, and Dianite thought about the one panic attack he’d been around—Mot’s. He supposed he could try the same with Jordan—although he doubted if it would end in the same…circumstantial ending. There was also the question of the man’s reluctance to touch at the moment.

He wrapped an arm around the man and immediately was met with squirming and a general wordless look of “let go.” Dianite eyed the approaching beast. The god stood, pulling Jordan up with him and without letting Jordan see the beast he cupped Jordan’s chin. He put his other hand on Jordan’s waist and mentally made sure that when he teleported he needed Jordan’s attention elsewhere. Not for any good reason, but so the man didn’t notice the god was going back on his own words.

“I—” was all Jordan got out, before Dianite pressed his lips to Jordan’s, transporting and eying the beast lunging at them as they disappeared. Back in Dianite’s room, the god released him as Jordan took a startled step back, and then just stared at the god in a mixture of emotions—none overwhelmingly positive.

“Have a drink with me, and let’s both agree to forget. And I’ll refrain from coercing you into doing things against your will,” Dianite said quickly, and the man wavered, before Dianite could see tiredness crashing down. Jordan sighed and nodded.

“Yeah, fine,” Jordan snapped, and Dianite didn’t hesitate to pour him a generous amount of the wine, watching as Jordan drank it slowly, but steadily, clearly ignoring the flavor. Dianite let out a huff into his own wine glass. This was a lovely vacation. Just. Lovely.

The time passed quickly for the god, and he ended up letting Jordan pour his own drinks since the man clearly wasn’t interested in drinking for the flavor or experience. None too surprisingly, only halfway into the third drink he passed out—tired. Dianite had retrieved the glass from his hand before he spilled it across his rug. Dianite eyed the man and considering just levitating him into the bed before opting to be polite. He picked Jordan up, wrapping an arm under his shoulders and another under his legs. He set him on the bed and eyed the bed himself.

He didn’t need to sleep, but the idea sounded pleasant after today’s events. But he wanted even less to hear Jordan’s complaints in the morning so he resigned himself to the arm chair, closing his eyes to meditate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the time of writing the first section the Author Note read: “Having a Hard as fork final in an hour and haven’t studied for it—lets do fanfic instead. Yeet. [I got a B in the class BTW].”
> 
> Currently it reads: Wow, sure do wish I could update consistently and in a timely manner.


	3. We'll Take it Higher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jordan does what he's told; Dianite threatens a man and takes a phone call from his not-brother.

Dianite awoke before Jordan, but only by a few moments. The man was up and didn't linger in the bed, immediately going for the sword he had left on the mantle. Dianite didn't stop him, noting his corporeal form had returned.

"You won't be needing that to follow them, nor will you have any means of hiding it—unless you allow me to modify it," Dianite said, and waited a moment as Jordan reluctantly turned to him. The man handed him the sword and Dianite surveyed him. Sullen. Moody. Bordering on 'Silent Treatment'.

He supposed another allowance he could make was letting the man's terrible fashion prevail. He let Jordan's outfit modify, reflecting his usual one, the black jacket sitting atop a plain white t-shirt with...black sweats, a white-stripe going up the sides. Terrible. Utterly terrible.

Without further explanation, he added an invisibility enchantment on the sword. "It only works in bursts of five minutes, otherwise keep it in its sheath. Jordan didn't even ask, noting the sheath that had appeared on the belt at his waist. He also noted the return of his preferred outfit and pulled on the sleeves comfortably. With a smooth motion, he sheathed the sword.

He almost turned away, but he glanced at Dianite—visibly sighed and looked him in the eyes.

"Thank-you," Jordan said amiably, and Dianite rolled his eyes.

He chose not to respond—he could be professional and this was one of those days. The snide remark died on his tongue, and he turned his attention to the important matters. Procuring from thin air with a slight snap of his fingers a golden tracker, he handed it to Jordan who regarded it with surprise. It had been sometime since he had seen one of these.

"This, will show you how to find Nadeshot. Normally I would track the Modesteps, but seeing as I cannot locate them as they're cloaking themselves, and I was only able to plant a tracking spell on the white-jacketed-nuisance yesterday, you'll be following him."

Jordan turned the tracker over in his hand, noticing the arrow spin idly and he pocketed it, comfortably letting the weight settle in his sweat pockets. "And after I find him?"

"Kill him—since we are in my realm and that is my enchanted sword, he will be forced to me before he can be revived—I will handle him after, you need not worry further than that," Dianite said, and as expected, Jordan complained.

"You're not torturing or maiming him," Jordan said firmly. "Nadeshot isn't terrible—he's just a bit like Tom."

Dianite smiled, flashing the fanged teeth. "Funny, I don't recall you being elevated to god status?"

Jordan gritted his teeth. He took a moment to seethe before he steadied himself and brought himself to his full height, arms tense, but not locked as they folded across his chest. "I'm not going to bring him back to be slaughtered  _permanently_."

"Then don't bring him back—I'm sure Ragnarok looks lovely this time of year," Dianite said, and the old nerves from yesterday arose again. He ran a hand through his hair and looked the man in the eye. "I am a  _god_ , and I have business to conduct—and I doubt he will be so obliged to tell us all his plans and sell his comrades out."

Jordan shook his head. "Nadeshot is disloyal—he used to be an Ianite follower until  _Tom_  convinced him otherwise," he admitted. Dianite saw the annoyance festering there, and chose to note it for later. Loyalty was fiercely ingrained into Glitter Lap. If he felt he was indebted and needed to be loyal to Dianite—it would be far easier to just simply request him to change sides.

"I see, followers leaving any version of my sister is far too common—everyone's loyalty can be bought, I suppose," Dianite allowed, and waited a pregnant moment. Jordan didn't seem to understand—as he hadn't at the time. "Oh, the  _Price_ of  _Betrayal_ ," Dianite drawled. "What could it possibly be?"

He waited, and this time Jordan understood and he was surprised at the amount of indignation rolling off the man. "That's not fair—you were supposed to be the good version of yourself—I," Jordan started, and Dianite chuckled, letting the man fume. His cheeks were bright red in a mixture of embarrassment and anger, his ears following. "You were a spirit and didn't even—you didn't even ask anything, so what point did it make?" Jordan questioned, and Dianite let his hands stray—how he wouldn't mind kissing the man. God this vacation needed something other than soul-eating-monsters.

"Power, Quintessence, call it what you will? You talk so freely about the will of Ianite when wielding a bow made by her, did you not think the same rules apply when wielding a sword made by myself? That perhaps I was gaining power that way? Killing under my name, Glitter Lap—truly endearing," he cupped Jordan's chin and either the man was too busy fuming or felt too overwhelmed to bat his hand away.

"You—you're—you bastard!" Jordan choked out, and Dianite laughed, letting Jordan pull away and shake his head. "My god, I didn't think—god dammit, just..." Jordan let out an angry huff and looked at the sword in his hands, then to the god. "Let me guess, you get something from this one too?"

Oh, how he enjoyed this immensely. "Something, yes."

"Explain," Jordan said.

"I think not," Dianite said, "You have a mission to do—see to it," Dianite said, and let Jordan fume as he turned the sword over, looking for something to tell him the answers he needed. He wouldn't find it—Dianite wasn't gaining much from Jordan using the sword.

Only a sliver of Nadeshot's soul when Nadeshot was killed with it, but Dianite expected payment for those actions, and part of one's soul was proper comeuppance.

Sighing, Jordan looked at the sword, then back to Dianite. "Was the Price of Betrayal really—"

"Why do you think it was named that?" Dianite pressed.

"...It was a cool name," Jordan argued weakly. Dianite sighed.

"I suppose your Naivety can also be endearing, when it benefits me," Dianite said to himself more so then Jordan, but let the man hear it anyway. Jordan didn't even spare him a look, shoulders tight and eyes narrowed

"Can you just teleport me outside the castle, so I can begin?" Jordan muttered.

"Of course, unless you would like to kill some beasts or perhaps bicker with me some more," Dianite chided, and Jordan took a deep breath and eyed the tracker. He was mentally counting to ten. Dianite let him be and smiled.

"Take care, Jordan. Do come back in one piece," Dianite said and with a wave of his hand, Jordan felt the room melt away.

...

When his feet hit the ground, Jordan felt his spectral form vary. It flickered—as if a flame in a heavy wind and it took him a conscious effort to push the form into an acceptable state of intangibleness. He also realized with dawning worry—he had no idea how to turn invisible. The sword could, yes, and he could appear intangible—but not invisible. Or maybe he was? He could see himself and Dianite could have. Jordan eyed his hands. Transparent—but not unnoticeable.

The heat of the Nether felt distant, but still weighed heavy on him despite the lack of skin

Jordan pushed his jacket sleeves up, and found his sunglasses sticking out of a jacket pocket. Even though the only light in the nether was from glow-stones and lava, he slid them on, feeling a comfort in the action.

He felt better, although that was ignoring the nightmares. It wasn't like he was prone to suggestion, or that Dianite's words and the beasts ripping into him lingered in his mind—but they did. And he had nightmares of being ripped into and Ianite rejecting him. The man was distraught and if he had the option, he would be strip-mining or crafting something elaborate to take his mind off his slew of problems.

He pulled out the tracker and watched the arrow spin. As it took its time looking for a direction, Jordan took a look around to see where he had been teleported to; it looked to be the backside of the castle where there was not much—the garden having been the only elaborate outside decoration here. The scaly cliffs of the Nether plunged up high behind the castle and he only wondered what lay in the Deep Nether, where temperatures were too hot for any living person to handle. A fire pot could get someone through—but should they run out while over there—Jordan hates to think what that would feel like.

He supposed he was resistant to the heat now, but he had a feeling beasts like the soul-eating one lay in there.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the arrow come to an abrupt halt and he glanced at the direction the arrow was wavering in. It was around the entrance to the castle garden, or so he could guess. Jordan willed himself to be invisible—hoping it would have some effect and began to walk over there, eyes peeled for any movement. Whether it be soul-hungry beast or Matt, Tony or Josh.

The occasional Gast scaled cliffs and a few Pigmen fumbled about, doing likely ritualistic chores for whoever they served, but as he approached the lava-soaked garden he had yet to find anyone of note. The tracker spun more to the left, leading him to the other side of the Garden. He walked the outside and briefly saw a flash of white. A hoodie diving behind a side of the castle.

Jordan slowly followed, fearful he could be seen or possibly ambushed by a soul-eating-beast. He cursed as he peeked around the corner—Matt was standing before a beast and the beast—was staring at him. It's tongue coming out to loll. Matt paid it no mind, pulling a sword from his sheath and prodding the creature with it. Its attention snapped to the man and it whined—a sound like nails on chalk. "Go on, get—back in the castle," Matt ordered, and the creature slunk low to the ground and scampered back towards the castle, it's whine loud as if it knew it had missed a real chance at a meal. If the beast could see him—would it mean Matt could?

Jordan ducked back around the corner.

Yet his carefulness was for not, for after a moment, Nadeshot—Matt—reappeared, staring right at him. He expected some sort of surprise or perhaps an immediate attack, but instead—Matt could not—in fact—see him.

The next moment almost shocked him into reappearing as Matt walked straight through him to greet someone. "Tony! You've been in the Overworld far too long—I was nearly murdered last night!" Jordan managed not to jump out of his form and turned to see Tony had reappeared from a nearby Nether portal, wielding a sword that glowed with something sickly green. At the sight of it—he felt that it was something like what Matt had used to ward off the beast—except far more powerful.

"Relax—you're fine. So, who'd Tom sacrifice?" Tony questioned. "I have my suspicions but..."

Matt shrugged. "I haven't been able to get in the castle myself—and these things are either terrible at fetching then killing or whoever it is managed to avoid them. I'm going with the former—these things during the practice run gobbled up souls like..." Matt gestured strongly. Tony shook his head and walked to the side, eying something.

"I doubt it," Tony sighed. "Jordan hasn't been around—and I caught Tom going through his vault, not that I care, he actually gave me a pretty good deal on some things..."

Jordan was going to _definitely_  make sure Tom knew just how  _thankful_  he was with repeated gifts. Tom would spend his next few weeks down here if Jordan got his vengeance.

"...but I had to decline them," Tony had continued. "Can't take items of a willfully sacrificed dead—well, not more than one—which I already have. I grabbed one of Tucker's too—but as we know, or at least I do, Jordan's clearly down here somewhere."

Jordan took a few steps back and pressed himself against the wall, letting his form slip into it—just in case Tony started using some fancy device to see ghosts.

"How do we know he isn't dead?" Matt said, then added. "Well, completely dead."

"We don't," Tony said.

"Why go through the effort of killing him then?" Matt questioned.

"Because I honestly don't like him, and this is a good opportunity to just off him entirely," Tony said offhand. He shook his head. "Enough about that, go on and take this and get some of the other souls we got so we can feed the beasts at the Dire," he passed Matt the sword—and then paused, cocking his head. His eyes were on something past Jordan—and he recognized it as the beast from earlier.

It whined.

"Ah for fuck's sake, fuck off," Matt muttered. "It keeps following me."

"Are you sure it's not something else near you?" Tony questioned.

"Like what?"

The beast drew closer and Jordan eyed it. Slowly, he pulled the sword from the sheath letting it go invisible. The beast withdrew, scratching the ground nervously. It whined at the two corporeal men.

"Like a recently deceased soul—who would feel like his britches were big enough to interfere—like fucking Jordan, that's who," Tony snapped, and his eyes narrowed in on the area, picking it apart. Jordan remained invisible, sword drawn and perched inside the wall. He waited with baited breath.

Jordan did find himself glowering at Tony, even if the man couldn't see him. It wasn't like he ever hated Tony—but if Tony was going to wish death upon him—it was never too late to hate Tony entirely. Tony frowned and turned his attention to the beast. "Find him."

The beast didn't move. It whined and began to back away, eyes darting. Tony was already fed up—in one quick motion he drove the green sword through the beast. Despite the beasts trying to rip him apart several times—the site of the green light breaking through the beast from the inside-out was horrifying enough to feel a shred of sympathy.

"Jordan's around here," Tony spat.

Matt glanced around, but he ended up shrugging. "Are you sure? He could just be in the castle near here and it sensed him."

Tony grimaced. "Keep an eye out for Jordan, he's resourceful. I'll come back in a moment to relieve you. I have to go grab something from Josh," Tony went off further into the Nether, and Jordan eyed him before turning his attention back to Matt. He was now mostly defenseless—just a faintly green-sword. Alright, easy enough. He could tail Matt for a little further or he could deliver on his promise to Dianite early. It wasn't like Matt was doing anything notable. Jordan crept out from the wall and pulled his sword up to his shoulder height. Matt was a few inches taller than him and Jordan looked for a good angle to run his sword through him. After a reluctant consideration, Jordan opted to go from the lowest part of his back up through the chest.

Jordan braced his feet and let himself form, his visibility flickering in and out of focus. Matt was aware he was there—but far too late. Matt couldn't turn and confront him; the sword had successfully impaled him. He fell limp. Jordan congratulated himself.

_"I'm better at Tom than this. Wonder how Dianite gets anything done with him as a follower? Maybe that's why Dianite gave me a pretty-wide window to do it...It takes Tom two hours to remember he was supposed to do something and another three to actually do it._

"Matt?"

Shit. That was Tony. Jordan grabbed Matt's body and attempted to drag it to....where? There was nowhere around. Jordan wondered...

Ghosts could possess people right? Even if they were dead? Jordan thought about it a moment harder and decided entirely against it. No. That sounded and felt like it would be really gross. He opted to attempt to turn Matt's body intangible and with a lot of effort---nothing. Was this how Tom felt? Tom—who killed Tucker, Sonja and him on a daily basis and then immediately played the fool?

_Okay...On second thought, I get it--I really do. Killing people constantly is probably pretty hard. Tom doesn't really try to hide it..._

"Matt—I swear to god. If you went back to the Overworld early again..."

Jordan stowed the body as tightly against the wall as he could and let himself go invisible. Tony was drawing closer, but he was looking around quickly, his eyes uncaring. After a moment, he sighed. "Son of a bitch." Oh thank god, he didn't notice the dead body.

Jordan considered Tony who was beginning to walk away, then the dead body. Well, it was likely Dianite already had Matt's soul—and if he tailed Tony now he could get more information. Jordan exhaled and made sure he was entirely intangible and invisible before following Tony. He'd see what the man was doing. Jordan didn't like to be arrogant, but he could take Tony  _and_ Josh in a fight and prevent Ragnarok—probably. If he had a bow this would be a lot easier...but they  _were_  corporeal. Meaning... Jordan found himself pausing and with a small grin...

If he could get his hands on a bow...

After he followed them and knew where they were stationed, he would come back with a bow. It wasn't like he wanted to impress Dianite--he was rude and didn't care at all about Jordan as a human-being. But--some part of him did. Just because he knew to a degree he was far more efficient than Tom. And Dianite would tell him that if he went above and beyond. And maybe--just maybe, Dianite would show him some true goddamn respect.

Maybe the real issue was that Tom was an utter failure, and Dianite was ranking him on a Tom to Mot scale and kept associating him with Tom.

Jordan  _knew_  he was better than Tom. He could take Tony and Josh down right after he figured out where they were at. Then he'd return with a bow and Dianite wouldn't have much room to complain. 

...

It is not long before Jordan delivers. Dianite is pleased. He feels the soul's silent request to return to life, but he denies it and cracks his knuckles. His horns glow green briefly and he feels his anger twisting low in his gut. He is deeply ready to slowly roast the  _Nadeshot_  over a soul-fire and allow whatever mob so pleases to spear him continuously. He is content to expend his power on reviving the man to kill him all over again. The room fills with light as Matthew materializes. Dianite lets his anger fade to keep his mind clear—it is no use to kill the soul endlessly—they only grow immune and expectant of the pain.

He is not the master of the deceased—there is no reason to foster an after-life for the damned. Their souls are eviscerated, and their bodies become unthinking minions to roam the Nether until slain by someone seeking potion ingredients. He has found the after-life (for the god-preferred) set-up here is not unlike his in his own realm, which he is pleasantly tickled by. Perhaps he is unfair to judge soul-eating beasts too harshly—he himself does not protect most souls. His followers are given an after-life of course, it would be rude to do otherwise—and he supposed if a godless person particularly impressed him he would send them onward without a second thought. Unlike his brother who fancies a clean and immaculate palace among the clouds, Dianite keeps his afterlife beneath the Nether and lets a few of his more creative deceased-followers decide the model and design of the place.

He is willing to let his followers dictate their own independence in their after-life. After-all, he deemed them worthy to live a second life, they need no more rules. He will have to make sure when he returns to godly duties this after-life is up to his standard.

After-life aside, this particular soul was likely to never have a chance to see it.

Dianite stood tall as Matthew took in the room, his eyes focusing on the differing surroundings then expected and the six-foot-something good standing before him. He takes a step back and Dianite lets the room fill with fire. It is good the old Dianite held some degree of fear over his followers—otherwise, he'd have to be much worse. He has chosen an empty room and spent a modicum of power modifying it to suit his needs. It is circular in design and the high walls and pits at the edges are an illusion—in fact, most of the room is. However, no one, but him needs to know this.

The ring of fire forced him forward. Matthew scanned the room in full, unwilling to address Dianite. That wouldn't be an issue much longer--Dianite could enjoy long drawn-out sessions with a reward at the end. The god let him realize the futility of his situation and slowly pulled the soul to the edge of the flames. Matthew felt himself being dragged forward, but could do little to stop it—instead he let his limbs splay—looking for hold in empty air.

"You carry my name like a badge for your misdeeds," Dianite started. "Should I carry yours solely for the crime being committed?"

Matthew pales. "No sir—my lord; I had no part in planning it—I'm just..."

Dianite held up his hand and Matthew fell silent, shaking. Dianite let his lip curl up—he is disgusted and sneers down at the mortal. He let the room fill with silence before he turns his back on Matthew, letting the man fear what was to come. "If you are not the one to blame—then who is."

"Tony and Josh—I just helped them, because you know how it is! Usually, Tom would be with us, but he...he was with that...Mot...dude and..."

Dianite let him stumble to a stop. He knew this information, he was unimpressed.

"My lord?"

"If that will be all, then I have no more use for you—I will simply let those soul-eating beasts you parade around  _my_  realm dispose of you," Dianite said, and kept his composure as his horns glowed green-his eyes echoing the color. The fire dimmed and Dianite can see the glowing eyes of a soul-eating beast beyond the fire. It is not a lie—the very creatures they direct to murder do not discriminate.

Matthew's face drains of all color—his mouth is open, agape. He quickly strides towards the god. "No—nononono—look, my lord—I'm sure—I have further information! Yes!" Matthew pleaded. "Look—what do you want to know—we're doing this because of something called—"

"Ragnarok," Dianite cut him off. "There is a Mother to all these beasts—and despite the many you murdered to create these beasts—there is one you forcefully sacrificed meant to be fed to the Mother which will spur Ragnarok and cause the destruction of the Overworld, the End, and the Nether—and ultimately—this realm."

Matthew stared at him in shock. "It'll...do all that?"

"Did you think you were playing a game?" Dianite asked humorlessly. "Perhaps in another realm, but not this one." Matthew takes a step back and the fires flare again. Dianite follows him, his form growing. The horns curl larger and obsidian wings break free from his back. They glow with the same green flames, but as the seconds tick onward and Matthew cowers wordlessly the darken and bright until they are the red of the blood moony. The flames span the entirity of the room,  _The Nadeshot_  is boiling in the flames, their red and black fury licking burns into his  Matthew is dwarfed beneath the god giving a glimpse to his true form. "Yes," Dianite hisses, his face contorting. He is no longer human and a forked tongue snakes forward as his face resembles the skull of a dragon. "And if you can't provide me more on the details of where your  _friends_  are and their captive, and what they're currently doing—then I can see no future in which you live." Fire crackles along Dianite's exposed skin—it has changed color and texture and lava flows beneath patches of dark-red skin, fire dancing up his arms and neck. Matthew falls back in horror.

"Okay—okay! They're in the Fortress on the other side of the Nether—they didn't want to run into you! They have the girl in the lowest part of the fortress—and the Mother—I don't know...they never showed me where—"

" ** _Then use your brain."_**

"Okay! Okay! Please don't fucking kill me!" Matthew wracked his brain. "It's somewhere near that fortress—they were talking about moving the girl to a cage near it so that it would make it easier."

**_"If that is all—thank you for your service—I wish you best against the beast."_ **

Matthew shook his head. "No—wait! The captive—you may care—she—"

Dianite looms over Matthew. His wings are spread wide, his mouth open with green fire welling up inside his mouth—his eyes are a mix of red and green—the flames inside twist and spit. His human shape has altered—and he pierces clawed hands down on either side of Matthew's face.

**_"Spit it out."_ **

"Alyssa! It's that Mot dude's...daughter?"

For a moment Dianite's form flickers—his more human-side nearly returning, but he banishes it and looms over the man. He lets the fire flow out of his mouth and swirl breaths away from Matthew's face. The god's rage is barely contained.

Jordan's vacuous request to  _not_  maim one of the idiots behind Ragnarok returns to the front of his mind and the god unwillingly feels himself halt. He wants to dash away the thought—but he feels his godly composure (from years of dealing with the mindless heap that was his brother) return. The boyo was right—this is an unloyal pawn of people he should truly save his wrath for. He lets his form slowly return to human standards, allowing Matthew to scramble back right up against the edge of the flames.

He has, nonetheless, drawn unwanted attention. Dianite held up a finger to Matthew staring at him in shock and answers the call from the other god. It is this world's Mianite. He is not far from how Dianite remembers Mianite. Far less innovative and resourceful, but on the fair-side, far more human and truly righteous. He is not evil—perhaps in fashion, but not in morality. He is boring—Dianite supposes that could be considered evil—but he is not a burden or entirely a horrible person to have to rule a realm with so he supposed—this Mianite was only  _mostly_  a horrid sod.

"Dianite," he spit out the god's name as if it shouldn't be his. Dianite is not oblivious—this Mianite did not welcome the return of a god of the Nether. "I have sensed a disturbance in your power."

"I am merely lecturing a follower," Dianite explained. He adjusted his cufflinks.

"Yes," Mianite drifted off. "I suppose—but why use your true-form?" This Mianite is far too inquisitive. He'd hate to see how these gods would have regarded human-and-god relationships—he supposed the idea was foreign to him. "Forgive me,"—Mianite didn't sound sorry at all—"but in this realm we do prefer not to meddle with our followers nearly as much."

"A shame—you miss a good deal of pleasant intercourse," Dianite snorted.

"Pardon?"

"I mean discourse," Dianite corrected.

Mianite narrowed his eyes, the large eyebrows creasing. Despite his mistrust of Dianite, he is humored. "I am old, but not hard of hearing—you draw the conversation from the topic at hand."

Dianite eyed Matthew and with a sigh, banished him from the Nether—he would be unable to return or do much else for the duration of Dianite's vacation—he was trapped in an obsidian room out in the middle of the desert. The man had no need to hear his and Mianite's conversation.

"You did tell us rather rudely you were taking a vacation," Mianite said, head tilting.

"I did."

"Yet?"

"Should I explain my every move? Or are we not gods of our own realms? I have not touched a hair on your followers—nor have I acted outside of my jurisdiction," Dianite let himself teleport to his study, keeping the conversation with Mianite open.

"I suspect you are disguising your falsehoods as humor-filled jabs at how we govern our realm—you mean to deter my interference?"

"Precisely," Dianite said.

"Consider me unmoved—we shall have this conversation again. Your decision to make your followers immune is giving mine grief and if reviving them while you bask in the glowing lava of the Nether is truly too much of a hassle, then pass the responsibility onto myself or Ianite—we are not in a time of war—I will not discriminate."

Dianite felt strangely at that—this Mianite was far from the whims of his brother, and he felt an ache in his chest. He did miss his sister and some of the faint, barely existing, but inarguably good....memories of his brother. He felt a strange sense of kinship—perhaps he could find a brother in another's realm version of his own.

Or perhaps he had truly killed his brain cells in the void trip to this one. "And where would the fun in that be?" He prodded, but after a moment—Mianite still staring at him--he let the sarcastic lilt in his voice fall. "I shall consider it."

"Please do—I would rather dislike a repeat of  _my_  brother."

"I feel similarly."

The call was disconnected and Dianite sobered up. Daddy-fucking-issues indeed. He would have to inquire this Mianite and Ianite on what fate befell their father and mother—he was not going to forge even a rivalry with this world's gods if there was even a chance at another rise of the World Historian.

But on other matters—Alyssa.

Dianite grit his teeth. He truly hoped it was a lie—however with Mianite breathing down his neck, if he contacted Mot and asked him to confirm her absence—the other god would take notice. He was truly fucked. Not to mention Mot himself would royally murder half the town to find Alyssa if he suspected she had fell prey to ill-will. In fact, he could very well be doing that now.

He would remain calm, collected—and not at all strangle the Ianite-follower who had yet to return.

...

**Author's Note:**

> Also on Wattpad. Check me out there for much more Motanite/Syndisparklez (my normal pairs).


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